Moms' Favorite Reads March 2023

Author Kelly A. Harmon interviewed by Wendy H Jones. Plus, Author Features, Health, and Wellbeing , Photography, Poetry, Short Stories, Flash Fiction, Celebrating Women, and so much more!

Welcome to March 2023

Wendy H. Jones

Author, Publisher, Writing Coach

Welcome to the March edition of Mom’s Favorite Reads, my second as editor. As March brings us International Women’s Day, we are celebrating women this month, especially in our flash fiction and flash nonfiction section of the magazine. This got me thinking about what International Women’s Day is about and where it began. It would seem it was first organised and held in New York City in 1909 by members of the Socialist Party of America. Then, it was a means of uniting the suffragist movements and other socialist causes under a common unifying umbrella.

However, the first official International Women’s Day was held in 2011 and the day has been celebrated every year since. Fast forward to today when it will be celebrated around the globe on 8th March. It is a day that unites women and celebrates their achievement as well as keeping the debate open on gender equality. March is also the month where we celebrate Mother’s Day in the UK. Of course, as well as celebrating women we also have our usual mix of short stories, poems, articles, travel, book reviews, and so much more. I hope you enjoy this month’s issue as much as I, and the editorial team, enjoyed putting it together.

Wendy

Kelly A. Harmon

Interviewed by Wendy H. Jones

with you

By way of introduction tell us a bit about yourself and your books.

Thank you for having me, Wendy. I’m excited to answer your questions. I’m from the US and live in Maryland. I write fantasy, science fiction and horror as well as some non-fiction about a variety of subjects. I’m working on the fifth novel in the Charm City Darkness series and am currently shopping a fantasy series that I’ve been writing off-and-on for a few years. I spent some time on my thesis last year and recently finished my Masters in Fine Arts.

A nice easy one - can you tell us how you came to writing?

I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t writing. Making up stories and writing them down has been a part of my life since the very beginning. When I couldn’t write the words myself, I would tell my mom and she would write them for me.

You write both novels and short stories and are also a journalist. How does this all fit together?

I knew I was going to make a career out of writing when I was very little, but I got nudged into journalism by well-meaning family who thought I could make a better living as a reporter than an author. So, after college, I began my journey writing crime stories for the local paper during the day, and writing dark

fantasy and horror in the evening. Reporting was at turns exciting and boring, and it fed my fiction as much as my imagination did. I interviewed murderers, movie stars, politicians, grieving widowers Their faces, their voices, their mannerisms and even a few of their stories wormed their way into my prose.

I’m no longer a reporter, but I still write nonfiction when I have the opportunity. It’s nice to switch things up and keep my brain nimble. I always feel like I learn something when I write non-fiction, which is fantastic.

Where on earth did the idea for Charm City Darkness come from? They totally blew me away.

Thank you for the kind words about CCD!

The story came about because I was ready to write something “easy.” (Little did I know!) I had just finished writing a dragon novel and another fantasy novel, (neither of which I have sent to publishers) and I was a bit tired

of all the world building that goes into fantasy. So, I knew I wanted to write something “contemporary” but also fantastic, and gargoyles seemed underutilized, so I chose that as a starting point. That’s where the stoned in Stoned in Charm City comes from. A gargoyle needs a church, so I chose the one I was most familiar with: Holy Rosary in Baltimore, Maryland. One of Baltimore’s nicknames is Charm City, stemming back to 1975 when the mayor asked city marketers to come up with something to promote tourism. Charm City refers to Baltimore’s rich history and hidden charm.

The first scene I wrote was the one where well -meaning Father Hughes summons demons instead of angels. I knew then that this wasn’t his story though it was something bigger. Once I brought in Assumpta, the novel practically wrote itself.

We always ask authors about their own books but never ask them about their reading habits. What do you read to relax and what books would you pack to go on holiday?

My favourites are fantasy, science fiction and horror, but I’ll read practically anything. I enjoy biographies, history and how-to books, as well. I’m currently rereading Mo Dao Zu Shi: Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation by Mo Xiang Tong Xiu, waiting for my pre-ordered book 5 to arrive! I first read it on line, but I love having the books in hand to carry with me wherever I go.

Regarding a holiday, I get very little reading done if I’m on a “sight-seeing” vacation or hiking. But if I’m headed to the beach, I’ll pack a stack of romance or cyber-thrillers: stuff that’s easy to read, that I don’t have to concentrate on, and won’t have to remember exciting escape fiction all the way!

This is the hardest question to answer for a writer and reader, if you could choose only one book that shaped your journey as a reader, what would it be?

Oh! This is an easy one for me: Patricia Coffin’s The Gruesome Green Witch. I found it in my elementary school library the week before school let out for the summer. The cover depicts a beautiful, green-skinned woman the witch whose back is reflected in a mirror. Her back is indeed gruesome, with the bones of her spine revealed and her innards hanging out! And the book is typeset in green ink. The story is about two best friends who find a magic tunnel inside a bedroom closet that leads them to an enchanted land. There, they meet all kinds of extraordinary creatures and battle the witch at the end.

There was magic in the real world and adventure! And the heroines had fun names like Mole and Puffin and they could do awesome deeds like fight trolls and learn math! I was hooked.

I will admit that I did not want to return the book! I haunted used bookstores for years afterward, looking for a copy. Decades later, I finally found one. I still reread it every so often.

Which author do you think has most influenced your writing?

Most definitely Dean Koontz. I remember reading Watchers when I was 10 or 11. I found it gripping. My mother started it first, and every time she set it down I picked it up and walked off with it.

(I have my Mom to thank for my love of books. She taught me to read before I went to kindergarten.)

After Watchers, I devoured every Dean Koontz book I could find. I learned he’d written a book called Writing Popular Fiction in 1972, which I wanted to read, but it was long out of print at the time. So I wrote to Dean Koontz and asked him if he knew where I could find a copy.

He wrote me back and told me not to buy his book. Instead, he included several photocopied covers of other books which he thought would be better. I was super impressed. I make certain to buy every book he writes.

Do you have a favourite book on Writing and if so, what is it? Again, I know this is a tough one, especially when you have so many friends in the writing world.

Yes – it’s from the mid-90s, but I think it holds up well: Sol Stein’s Stein on Writing. It’s packed with solid advice and fantastic examples. No fluff. It’s another book I reread every few years, mostly because I just enjoy his tone. I always come away with ideas.

I have reviewed the first two of your Charm City series in the magazine. Who would these books appeal to?

I waffle on this question a lot: I like to think readers of Urban Fantasy would eat it up, but there’s a sex scene which you don’t normally find in UF. So, it might turn off some of those readers. On the other hand, it might appeal to readers of Paranormal Romance, but the sex isn’t happily ever after. So I’m not sure. It’s somewhere in between. If you don’t have serious expectations about genre, I think it might appeal to anyone who likes stories about angels and demons, ghosts and gargoyles and other such creatures.

How do you go about making the switch from novel length to short stories and then back again?

I never think about the length of a story when I start writing it. I think each story has its own suitable length: it should be that long and not any longer. I knew the Charm City Darkness books were going to be novels because the idea was so large. There are multiple characters, each with their own story and motivations, so they had to be novel-length to fit it all in. There were some CCD ideas that came to me as I was writing, and I realized they weren’t part of the books. Those individual pieces became short stories because they dealt with oneoff problems that didn’t fit in with the main story line.

Sometimes I’m asked to write a short story of a particular length for a magazine or anthology, so I’ll have to come up with an idea to fit. To keep stories short, I’ll pare back on everything except the essential. With longer stories and novels, I know I’ll have the room to add additional characters and plot threads.

I’m curious as to how much from your life as a writer spills over to and shapes your fiction?

Not a lot of my personal life, but definitely a lot of what I’ve seen or been exposed to turns up in my work. Write what you know, right? I grew up in Baltimore, so it became the setting for the Charm City Darkness series. I was married in Holy Rosary Church, so it, too, was included. (Fun fact: so was my mom, my aunt, my grandmother, as well as a host of cousins.) My grandmother’s house was just across the street from the Pulaski Monument. I grew up regularly seeing these and other locations that are in the book.

Assumpta gets her name because she was born on the Feast of the Assumption in a Catholic Hospital and the nuns urged her

mother to name her Assumpta. This is the true story of a close family friend (whose mother refused the nuns). Assumpta’s father presenting her with an accounting of all she owed him on her 18th birthday is a true story, too.

In a short work, I have a main character whose hand was injured when a pot of boiling oil spilled on it and burned most of the skin off. This happened to a close family member. Having seen it first hand, I already knew the details I would use. Even though this was a “modern” injury, I was able to turn it into a medieval one.

I think a lot of writers do this in order to make their stories more real, more believable. I haven’t felt the pain of boiling oil, but I once stepped on a rusty nail that was so long it pushed out the top of my foot. (Just thinking about it now gave me chills.) That was an injury that hurt twice: going in and coming back out. I remember that pain. I remember the shock. Whenever I write a character in pain, I think back to that incident and describe what I felt.

If you could go anywhere in the world to write, where would it be and why?

I like writing at the beach. There’s something mesmerizing about the roll and cadence of the waves as they strike the shore. My favourite time is when the sun is starting to set and the sand is cooling, when all the crowds have disappeared. I’ve spent hours with a notebook in my lap, scribbling away until the light fails and darkness falls. Unless it’s bitter cold, I’m happy at the beach no matter the season.

The other location would probably be Italy. I’ve visited a few times, but never for long enough. I can’t decide if I’d rather be typing away on a large terrazza in the countryside, or on a tiny balcony on a quiet side street in Rome. Maybe just under an umbrella in the Forum. There’s something exhilarating about being surrounded by so much history. It seeps into your bones. Ideas are never far away.

You are a prolific writer with numerous novels and numerous short stories in anthologies. What does a writing day look like for you?

I wish I had a writing day! I work full time, so in a typical day, I might grab a few minutes before work starts in the morning, then at lunch, and then again after work. If nothing else planned, I’ll grab a few solid hours on the weekend. That’s golden.

I’m frequently noodling a plot when no one’s looking. I’ve learned to jot down notes in those “spare minutes” when the time feels otherwise wasted: standing in line at the bank or the grocery, waiting for gas to fill, waiting on… whatever or whomever. I like pencil and paper for these moments, but if none’s available, I’ll pull out my phone and write.

Let’s get personal, what would be your perfect meal.

Lasagne, using my Italian grandmother’s recipe. Italian-style salad. Black pepper cookies and strong espresso for dessert. I enjoyed lasagne a lot growing up. While sauce simmered in a pot on the stove, my dad would make the noodles by hand. Oh, so good!

On holiday do you prefer beach, city, or wilderness? Why?

Both. I love the laziness of the beach. The hot sun beating down and the heat from the sand rising up is so relaxing. It’s like an outdoor sauna. That rest begets more rest: I find myself sleeping earlier and waking up earlier very relaxed. Wilderness, for me, is energizing: hiking woodsy paths jumping a deer or two climbing over rocks, putting my bare feet into steams. It’s great for recharging my creative batteries. And there’s always something to observe and make notes about that may or may not show up in my next story!

Do you prefer warm weather or cold weather?

I enjoy each in their own time. I love the change of seasons.

My final question, which one of your books would you recommend Mom’s Favorite Reads readers, read? Now that’s a mouthful and I wouldn’t want to try saying it after a glass of wine.

It’s always good to start from the beginning! If you don’t mind some sexy-sexy scenes, try Stoned in Charm City, the first book in the series. If that doesn’t appeal, one of my short stories could be nice. My personal favourite so far is “The Dragon’s Clause.” It appears in several anthologies (also under the name “San Marino and the Dragon”) which can be found listed here: https://www.isfdb.org/cgi-bin/ ea.cgi?125876

Thank you for taking the time to answer my questions. It is very much appreciated, and I am sure my readers enjoyed getting to know you better.

Thank you for having me, Wendy! This was a lot of fun.

Wendy H. Jones is the award winning, international best-selling author of the DI Shona McKenzie Mysteries, Cass Claymore Investigates Mysteries, Fergus and Flora Mysteries, Bertie the Buffalo children’s books and the Writing Matters books for writers. She is also a writing and marketing coach and the President of the Scottish Association of Writers. You can learn more about Wendy on her website: https://www.wendyhjones.com/

STONED IN CHARM CITY (Charm City Darkness Book 1)

by Kelly A. Harmon

Reviewed by Wendy H. Jones

Literally.

With demons tormenting their every step, Assumpta and Greg become both hunted and hunter in their search for a way to send the demons back to Hell. But one careless mistake could cost them their lives.

Wrestling with her faith, Assumpta considers an offer made by one very sexy demon: sleep with him and learn how to rid the world of the escaped evil. But the offer comes with a steep price: her immortal soul.

REVIEW

I would like to start by saying I loved Assumpta Mary-Margaret O'Connor as a character. She is well rounded, believes in her catholic faith, yet doesn’t shy away from embracing the dark side of the spiritual realm. It’s an unusual belief system and yet it totally works, not only to her as a person, but to the storyline as a whole. The book is extremely well written with language used to its full potential. All the characters leap off the page and into the psyche. You are probably wondering who on earth would want demons whizzing around in their brain but come on, these ones are a sexy as all get out and even I found myself falling in love with him. With Assumpta and Greg fighting demons every step of the way, the action is fast paced and relentless. Throw in the romantic element and this book has everything needed for a great read.

two.

A FAVOR FOR A FIEND (Charm City Darkness Book 2)

By Kelly A. Harmon

Reviewed by Wendy H. Jones

BLURB

Assumpta Mary-Margaret O’Connor’s demon mark makes her fair game for any passing demon and an attractive bargaining chip in the political alliances of Hell. Both courted and stalked by demons, she realizes she’ll never have peace until she rids herself of the demon’s mark. With the aid of her pendulum and the help of Brona Daly resident ghost of Baltimore’s Enoch Pratt Library Assumpta discovers the one sure-fire way to get rid of the mark: make a deal with the demon who marked her. While Assumpta prepares for battle, Jak the spirit she rescued from a demonic urn rejoins her, bringing aid in the form of five Roman legionnaires and Saint Michael, the Archangel. Even with ghostly, and Heavenly help, can Assumpta preserve her life and her soul when she goes to Hell to challenge the demon who marked her?

REVIEW

For someone who doesn’t usually read this genre of book, I am gobbling them up like they are the only books on the planet. I love them. The imagery in this book just blew me away, it brought the scenes to life, and I could envision every scene perfectly. In book two of the series, Assumpta is on a breath-taking, action-packed journey to save her soul with help from the heavenly realms. The plot rattles along at a rapid clip and the reader is dragged along for the ride. And what a glorious ride it was. I was rooting for Assumpta every step of the way and felt I was right there next to her. I think I have found my new favourite Author in Kelly A. Harmon; she certainly writes stories the reader will never forget. Although this is a stand-alone book, I

feel it would be better to start with the first book in the series. I am very much looking forward to reading the third.

LORELEI AND THE RHINE VALLEY

By Anne Treur

Ich weiss nicht, was soll es bedeuten, das ich so traurig bin…”

(Heinrich Heine)

These dramatic sentences are from Die Lorelei, a poem by Heinrich Heine. It’s about a beautiful enchanting mermaid, sitting on a rock overlooking the Rhine, where she sings her song. Skippers who aren’t aware of her dangers have eyes for the mermaid only, until the ships hit the cliffs and that’s the end of another poor skipper. The Lorelei still exists, a large rock in the middle of the river Rhine in Germany. It’s worth visiting and so is the rest of the Rhine valley.

The Rhine valley has a lot to offer, apart from the Lorelei. Beautiful nature scenes, old castles, villages and vineyards all make for a great time away from home. It’s definitely one of the most beautiful areas in Germany. Growing up, we often went to this area for our family holidays and I remember lovely towns with half-timbered houses and quiet village squares. We visited old ruins, swam in cool lakes and went on walks through the forests.

Siebengebirge and Drachenfels

I love the place called Koningswinter, looking like it’s come straight from some fairytale. There is an old ruin on top of the Drachenfels, a huge rock. The castle was strategically placed, as you can see for miles along the Rhine valley. The Dragon Rock is named after the dreadful dragon that was eventually sorted out by a young knight. There’s not much left of the dragon and even the castle, Sloss Drachenburg is fast disappearing. The views are spectacular as ever though.

Did you know, Heinrich Heine not only had a poem about the Lorelei, but he also wrote one about the Dragon Rock. The Siebengebirge, which has seven mountains surprisingly, is a beautiful area for walking, as well as visiting its many lovely towns.

Boppard, another interesting town.

Just south of Koblenz, which is a much larger city, you will find Boppard. It’s again a place with a view. There is a chairlift to take you to

a vantage point called Vierseenblick, where you can see the Rhine, snaking through the valley.

But even just sitting on one of the many terraces with a cold drink is enough to make you feel like you’re on holiday. The slow river, quaint church spire across the valley and the green slopes, are beautiful and enough to make you feel relaxed.

Boppard used to be part of the huge Roman Empire and went by the name Baudobriga, which was watered down to Boppard. Roman remains can still be found around Boppard although a lot has disappeared over time. The folk museum has a splendid home in the old castle of the Elector of Trier, who was in charge of the area. The medieval building is easily found on the river bank.

Lorelei

By simply following the route, we soon pass the Lorelei. Local people are making the rock pay, so there is a Lorelei Visitors centre, a Lorelei Inn, a summer toboggan run and plenty of restaurants and campsites with names like Lorelei View. But the rock itself is spectacular and the area is stunning.

By just following the river, you will pass so many beauty spots and many strategically placed castles, and simply seeing the river wind and twist through the green valley is a joy to experience.

If you want to see the Rhine from a different angle, a boat trip is a good way. Koblenz is great for a day out. It’s a lovely city with plenty to see and do. A boat trip is a relaxed way to see the area and castles. Just watch out near the Lorelei and keep an eye out to make sure the captain isn’t distracted by mermaids!

For the full article, visit Anne Treur’s website : https://www.ditisanne.nl/anne-reist-travel-blog/europa/duitsland/romantisch-rijndaldrachenfels-lorelei/

Anne Treur is Dutch, living in the east of the Netherlands. She works as PA, but spends her free time travelling, writing, taking photos and blogging about it all! Come and travel along with her, through her website: https://www.ditisanne.nl/annereist-travel-blog/europa/duitsland/romantisch-rijndaldrachenfels-lorelei/

Quit

by Robin Prince Monroe

The cry began as a request, not a demand. It was no nonsense, but not urgent. Someplace in my mom heart I knew I needed to respond, but there was the heavy weight of exhaustion sitting square on my chest. I couldn’t move, not yet.

The cry grew louder, more demanding. In my mind the words came, Please, baby, quit crying.” More crying, urgent now. My mommalove gave me the strength to push the weight off. I opened my eyes. As I became more aware, the smell of breast milk and sweat reminded me where I was. More crying, now frantic.

“I’m coming, baby.” I picked her up and held her on my shoulder. She calmed, taking those little staccato breaths that meant the crying was over. I took her back to bed, laid her in the crook of my arm and let her nurse. I breathed in her new baby smell, and stroked her downy head.

And my heart was full.

My house was wrecked. Giant Lego blocks were strewn across the floor. Anxious stuffed animals peeked from under the couch. Cracker crumbs, Cheerios, and an M&M were crushed into the carpet. A tired sippy

cup had laid over to rest, and was drooling onto my favorite throw pillow, the one that made me feel like a decorator.

It was naptime. What should I do with this one quiet hour? I felt like a desperately starving woman holding one small crust of bread. My mind raced. I needed to clean. I needed to start supper. I needed to fold laundry, read about potty training and I needed to rest!

“Mommy!”

“It’s okay, baby, please quit crying.”

“Mommy!!” She screamed.

I ran to her room. “What’s wrong, baby?”

She gulped the next scream. It caught in her throat with soppy breaths. I picked her up and carried her to the living room. We sat in the padded rocking chair, the one that we had rocked miles in when she was teething. She pointed to the pile of picture books on the small, wood table next to us.

I picked up her favorite and opened it. She quieted, and so did I.

And my heart was full.

The table was pushed against the wall of our small kitchen. I sat there with my planning book, and thick know-it-all teacher texts, working on the lessons for next week.

On the pantry door a brightly colored task chart taunted me with empty grid boxes and a few scattered stickers of hope. She was in her room now. Probably playing with her Barbies, having them act out the next friend crisis. Or maybe, she was reading her comic books, finding relief in an invented world. I wanted to let her stay there, playing and reading, remaining ten forever.

“Mom!” she shouted. “Mom!” Her persistence reminded me of a cawing crow.

I knew if I didn’t go, she would peck at me until I did.

I found her in her bedroom, standing in front of her dresser staring in the mirror. Tears were running down her sweet face collecting flecks of black mascara like a river collects sand.

“What is it, baby? What’s wrong?”

“Look at me! I look horrible! No wonder no one likes me.”

“Quit talking like that, baby. I am looking and here’s what I see. I see Aunt Erin’s golden eyes, Uncle Caleb’s curly, brown hair, Grammie’s turned up nose, and Daddy’s big smile. You are beautiful, Sweetheart. Beautiful.” She sat on her bed. I pulled up a chair.

I wiped her tear-stained cheeks, then helped her with a little make-up.

“Just for at home.” I said. She reached over to hug me. And my heart was full.

We laughed. I kissed her cheek, then went to my designated seat in the almost front pew. The pink and yellow flowers strategically placed around us smelled green, not sweet.

I tucked an errant curl back under her veil, then touched up her lips with rosy gloss.

“Quit fussing over me, Mom. You know you can’t fix my crazy hair.”

Pastel dresses, blazers and ties, filled the rows, waiting with expectant eyes and whispers.

Then the trill of Pachelbel’s Cannon tinkled through the air. She floated on her Daddy’s arm, all satin, fluff, and joy. She smiled and promised. He smiled and promised. They kissed.

An end, and a beginning. The organ sang again. She stopped to give me a hug.

And my heart was full.

Robin Prince Monroe lives in the beautiful Low country of South Carolina. She is an author, artist, and beach crazy, child at heart. She delights in writing for children.

To find out more visit www.RobinPrinceMonroe.com

Nobody Will Ever Guess You Are A Dog

by Peter Thomas

my brother and I were born a week early on the sofa, and the rest of my siblings arrived during the next few hours in a more appropriate place. Both the scene in the film and the unanticipated location of my birth have foreshadowed aspects of my life which I will disclose in due course.

Banoffee of Beechwood may sound a rather unusual name, but then I am a spaniel and my fur is indeed toffee and banana coloured. Nowadays most people know me as Sophie. Nobody has ever explained to me why my humans sometimes forget and call me Squiggle or Squigmeister, although when we were puppies they used to refer to me and my brothers and sisters collectively as the Squeakies, which we thought was rather rude.

I was born on the last Sunday of April 2015. My human daddy was watching Indiana Jones and it was in the very loud bit with the tank when he noticed squeaking coming from across the room. There was a whelping box prepared for my pregnant true Mum Poppy, but she insists she never got the memo. So

I was around 4 weeks old when I agreed to remain with my true Mum and her human family on the condition that they changed my name. They would have sounded so silly going around the park shouting “Banoffee! Banoffee!” In gratitude they chose a name derived from the Greek word for wisdom – entirely appropriate. Our humans had always said they would only ever be a one dog family, on the grounds that on a scale from 1 to 10 of bounce, spaniels come in at 11. Two spaniels make a liveliness factor of 11 squared. But I charmed them, and they have managed to survive with us both – somehow.

Our human mummy is a schoolteacher and Poppy and I have always helped her work by going in and meeting her children, letting them stroke us and showing off our training skills and tricks. Our human daddy is a clergyman and we help him by going to meetings where our friends who love dogs but don’t have their own feed us with biscuits and cake under the table. But we only really came into our own during the very sad times of lockdown when people started communicating using Zoom. Our unexpected appearances made online classes much more exciting and we feel our contributions to online sermons were very helpful, especially the time I joined in at full volume just as he was explaining the meaning of “Howlellujah”.

We found great inspiration in the Texas lawyer who appeared in court using a kitten filter on his video. At the same time we came into possession of some ground-breaking “woof-to-text” software. You can imagine how tedious it had been up until then typing with our tongues. We obtained our own dog-sized laptops and since then the world has been our Sausage Sandwich. We have proved that it is completely true what they say. Turn on “woof to text” and use a “human” filter. Nobody will ever guess you are really a dog! Which is how I will be delighted to share my adventures with you.

Married to Ruth, Peter Thomas is a very happy father, grandfather and spaniel owner. He has published three non-fiction books and is delighted to assist Sophie in her creative writing projects. Peter retired in 2023 after 36 years as a Minister of local Baptist Churches - he was originally a teacher of chemistry and computing. He looks forward to spending more time with family and friends, playing piano and guitar, and walking by the sea. He continues to add to his blog of more than a thousand sermons and reflections found at www.pbthomas.com.

Ducks On The Shore

by Tami C. Brown

What does Maryland’s Eastern Shore, cracked corn and camera lenses longer than your arm have in common?

You are in Cambridge, MD in January, where you can find hundreds of ducks on their migratory flight to warmer weather. Photographers from multiple states make a practice of stopping and snapping on Oakley Street. The cracked corn is thrown to give the ducks a bite to eat but to also help capture some extra special shots. My first time going there left me with such a warm feeling that if all these different species of ducks can get along, they can surely teach us, and they do, because while we are there together, no matter the size of the group, we make room for each other’s photo ops, and the children that can’t wait to throw the corn to the ducks. We are enjoying looking through a lens by camera or eyes in a moment that slows down time and allows us to enjoy nature and a migratory miracle that makes everyone happy to be a part of.

Some of the ducks pictured are Widgeon, Mallards, Canvasback and Scaup.

Tami C. Brown, wife, mother, and grandmother, loves to have her camera ready to snap beauty wherever she goes. Her family and friends, affectionately known as the Queenies, are well prepared for random stops along the journey to have a photo op.

She’s grateful for all photography opportunities and the adventures that come along with it.

LIBRARIES I HAVE LOVED

by SC Skillman

What? A subject such as this for Quirky Corner? A bit dry, isn’t it? Not at all. Not the libraries I’m thinking of. I was inspired by an Instagram post I read recently from a fellow-author.

She said she was warming up with a cup of coffee at the Dorchester Curiosity Centre in Dorset, while waiting for her MOT to be done, and ‘contemplating how cover design has developed over the decades’. She was looking at an entire wall filled with enticing covers of books over the past fifty years.

So, I replied, “Oh for the days when a book cover was boring, and you had to open a book to find out what it was about!”

I was thinking about all those beautiful libraries history lovers enter, within grand country homes open to the public gaze. They are my favourite rooms in the house. Usually there is a vast antique desk in a warm golden oak, with crystal ink pots and the finest stationery sets laid out upon its green baize cover. Elsewhere upon its gleaming timber surface we may notice a pure silver tray, and upon this reposes a cut glass decanter of port, sherry or madeira wine, and a few elegantly arranged crystal glasses, and perhaps a dish of almonds and delicate cheese portions. Behind the desk we may find a luxurious leather throne.

Elsewhere we may sink into sumptuous leather armchairs, or Chippendale chairs, and the

finest oak tables to place our books on. The walls are lined by deep carved oak shelves, from floor to ceiling, filled with a glorious display of books all mysteriously bound in the same restrained russet or midnight blue with gold tooled titles on the spine. To decide on a book, you had to go through the shelves and take one out and open it and scan the title page inside and the first few paragraphs and decide what you think.

I later discovered that the book cover as a way of advertising a book’s contents did not exist until the late 19th century. Until then, book bindings – made in leather or vellum – were merely handcrafted protection for expensively printed or handwritten pages.

There was none of this ‘being-hit-in-the-face’ as we are these days as we enter a bookshop, and soon become dizzy with multiple colours, stunning designs and sensory overload. No kaleidoscopes of images from every sphere of human existence, designed to hook you and claim your attention, with the purpose of gaining access to your inmost desires in the shortest time possible, to chime bells inside you, to meet whatever needs you believe you may have. How do the people with synaesthesia cope, I wonder? Those who hear colours as sounds, or experience sounds as colours?

But back before the late 1800s, no-one expected this when they entered a realm of books. Nothing would break in on them. These were times of leisure and contemplation and deliberation, we might think, if we enter one of the gracious libraries in an English stately home.

How I long for the mental and physical space, silence, and peace that I imagine reigned within some of those libraries. My dearest wish would be to go on retreat there for several days or even weeks, with all my needs catered to of course, several of them being met by oncall, willing and ever attentive uniformed staff. The others might be catered to by a visit to the (nearby bathroom with its gold taps and blue

and white Delft tiles upon the walls and its porcelain fittings). I would then calmly enter into the world’s greatest literature, spending quality time with the hearts and souls of those who penned it, their wisdom, their insights, their profound thoughts enshrined within the most beautiful language and powers of selfexpression. I would have time to imbibe all this, and to take it all into my own heart and soul.

A dream, you say? An idyll that never existed? Or a luxury only for the privileged few in a profoundly unjust world? For all those who dwelt in this environment during those days when the house was a live space, not merely a museum, would have had their own sorrows and anxieties and pressures too. They too, like us, would have been plagued by annoying people. The staff would probably have brought their own personal troubles into the house. The world they all lived in was replete with dreadful tragedies, social injustice, natural and manmade disasters, and political folly all borne from and fed by the same greed and lust for power that surrounds us all today. They themselves, as individuals, may have been protected from that world to a certain extent by their money:

even that did not save them from the effects of disease both physical and mental, ignorant doctors, bereavement, war, broken relationships, adultery and child mortality.

Yes, yes, I recognise all this: but back to those beautiful libraries. Surely, they were created by people with a vision: a vision for what life COULD be like, a vision for what many of certain tastes, like me, dream of and value. A beautiful, mellow, golden room, lined with books.

My favourites, all from grand country houses in the county of Warwickshire where I live, include the libraries at Charlecote House, Stoneleigh Abbey and Upton House. At Charlecote, the Lucy family were the lucky owners of the library. At Stoneleigh Abbey, Chandos Leigh, romantic poet and contemporary of Lord Byron, spent his happiest hours here within this room, and probably still haunts it today. At Upton House, Lord Bearsted enjoyed the warmth of this room.

Oh, all right then. Back to the twenty-first century high street bookshop and synaesthesiachallenging covers, then.

SC Skillman was born in Orpington, Kent. She studied English Literature at Lancaster University, and was a production secretary with the BBC. Later she lived in Australia. She has now settled in Warwick. She writes psychological, paranormal and mystery fiction and non-fiction. She is a member of the Society of Authors and the Association of Christian Writers. Her non-fiction books on local history are published by Amberley and include Paranormal Warwickshire and Illustrated Tales of Warwickshire; her next book, A-Z of Warwick, will be released later this year (2023).

Different Women I Read About

by Maressa Mortimer

Near the beginning of March is International Women’s Day. This made me think about the different books about or by women I have read recently. There have been some amazing books, and it’s hard to not overload you with every book that comes to mind!

So here are three books, with women overcoming difficulties, set in different continents, different eras and different circumstances, but I have enjoyed them all.

She is very matter-of-fact about the difficulties, as she points out that having several sets of twins was too much. It is Marilla, who looks at the young girl and realises how hard the girl’s life must have been.

As an adoptive mum, I look at Anne of Green Gables differently than when I first read it as a young teenager. I now know that many children are the caretakers, the ones looking after siblings or parents. There are many children pushed from pillar to post, with hard-pressed social workers trying to do their best. Looking at Anne, I smile, as she has not given up on life, but instead has learned to make the most of every moment.

The first is Anne of Green Gables, using the Audrey App. This was for a Book Tour, and I enjoyed it a lot. The Audrey App not only reads the story, enhanced with effects and background music, but it also comes with extra information and study questions.

Anne is such a wonderful character, full of life and boundless energy. Her hardships and struggles are often read between the lines.

I also read In the Shadow of the Banyan, by Vaddey Ratner. The book is set in Cambodia, during the Khmer Rouge. It is a moving book about a young girl, watching her world change. From being one of the royal families, they have to hide who they are. One thing that cannot be taken from her is her imagination. Her father is a famous poet and storyteller, who instils this love of stories into her.

In the Shadow of the Banyan is harrowing but at the same time beautiful as the people’s strength is brought out. The little girl is so much stronger than she thought she would be, even when the mother runs out of strength. A story of suffering, but also of hope and kinship.

My last book to share with you is The Girl With the Louding Voice, by Abi Daré. The book is set in Nigeria and speaks of the struggles of another strong girl. Adunni, the main character shows how she has never given up on her dream, and how she is determined to live her own life.

Again, a moving, difficult book, but full of hope and encouragement. Abi has woven into the book the language changes in Adunni, showing her growth in various ways. I loved watching Adunni finding her voice and becoming louder and unstoppable.

Other than Anne of Green Gables, I wasn’t familiar with the other two books. I read them for a reading challenge, and I’m so glad I did! I enjoyed getting an insight into other women’s lives that I wouldn’t normally get. I felt privileged to read their stories, to glimpse into their lives and their struggles and I celebrated their successes with them. I wonder if you have read any of these books or do you have other recommendations?

All of Maressa’s books are available from her website, www.vicarioushome.com, Amazon or local bookshops.

THE POWER OF THE PICTURE BOOK by

Pauline Tait

Picture books have the power to enrapture children. To feed their imaginations and ignite their creativity. All while momentarily transporting them to distant worlds.

Whether fiction or non-fiction, a picture book can be powerful, educate, instil morals, and send positive messages all while introducing friendly, loveable, inspiring characters children will adore.

Equally, a villain in a story can encourage empathy. As children cheer on the underdog, willing them to overcome their villainous rival, they begin to care for and feel a need to read on as they see their new cherished character blossom and overcome adversity.

The power of the picture book, however, is not solely in whether our children like or dislike a character. It is not just in which distant land their next picture book will transport them. It is far more.

Younger children will follow the story visually while being read to. They will listen as the reader’s voice laments the story, their voice rising and falling as excitement and tensions build.

By default, we are also encouraging early communication and language skills. As we read to our children, they can become enthralled by the characters and their adventures, which develops intrigue, excitement, concern, and compassion. They will want to ask questions and communicate their thoughts and hopes.

Initially, younger children will point with their fingers or make a facial expression. But, as they develop, they will begin to chat about the story and offer their insight as to where they think the story might be going.

As they further develop, they will start to follow the words. It might be with a pointed

finger or through asking questions, but no matter their method, they are learning the building blocks to reading, sentence structure and, in turn, the building blocks to writing. All while bonds are being built, and early childhood development encouraged.

At the same time, picture books can aid older or reluctant readers who need extra encouragement. Not too long, and with visual storytelling through illustrations, a picture book can help keep a child’s attention. And seeing a story through to its conclusion can be powerful for those whose attention spans may wander.

Both reading and writing are essential elements to our children’s future learning, and picture books are one of the first crucial rungs in their developmental ladder.

And so, as picture books come in many guises, this month, the Kids Carousel is reviewing a newly released picture book that seamlessly combines exquisite illustrations, educational content, and eloquent storytelling.

Protecting the Planet: Emperor Of The Ice

Written by Nicola Davies. Illustrated by Catherine Rayner. Published by Walker Books, January 2023 For ages 5 to 7 years

changing climate. It is a story that informs our little ones on the plight of the penguins while at the same time educating them on the changes happening to our planet and how these changes are affecting the penguin’s movements, breeding areas and colonies. The story unfolds with stunning illustrations. Each page turned is as mesmerising as the last and is sure to capture a child’s attention as they delve deeper into the ever-changing face of Antarctica and the world of the Emperor penguins.

The rear pages of the book discuss further the changes in the climate, the effects this change is having on the penguins and what we, as humans, can do to protect the planet in the future.

It is evident from Nicola’s storytelling that she has a knack for communicating with young children, and I very much hope there are more books to follow.

As Autumn approaches Antarctica, the Emperor penguins gather. In their masses, they prepare for the breeding season in colonies so large they are seen from space. For years they have returned to Halley Bay with its ice sheets so perfect it’s the ideal place to find a mate, breed and raise a chick. As the months pass, the emperors care for their eggs and chicks while the empresses take to the ocean. Swimming for weeks at a time, they return with full bellies. But climate change means that Halley Bay is no longer a haven for the penguins to gather. They must find a new breeding ground. And they can only hope they will remain safe and survive in the grips of climate change.

Emperor of the Ice is a powerful, informative, and eloquently told tale of the struggle Emperor penguins endure in today’s ever-

I will be gifting my copy to my youngest, a primary school teacher, as this is a story that should be in every classroom.

My only niggle is that it is only available in hardback, making it a bit more expensive in the current climate as it retails at £12.99. However, I do feel that the messages conveyed, the illustrations, and Nicola’s voice culminate in making this picture book worth every penny.

Pauline Tait is a prolific novelist and children’s author. Based in Perthshire, Scotland, she writes both suspenseful romance and children’s picture books for 3 to 7 years. With a background in Primary Literacy Support, Pauline is passionate in encouraging children in their own reading and writing.

Visit Pauline’s website – https://paulinetait.com

Engaging The Five Senses For Research (And making it fun!)

by Allie Marie

I’m excited to be one of the contributing authors for the new editions of Mom’s Favorite Reads. My writing spans several genres, but most are historical mysteries with paranormal elements and time travel. While I can research settings for modern characters with ease, trying to authentically capture the past takes time and research and a bit of creativity. I didn’t start applying all of the senses to my writing right away. The technique has evolved with time and has helped me create accurate and interesting settings.

My books are set locally where I am surrounded by the history of America. As a hands-on person, I can really get “into” my work. This has included shadowing a brewer for several sessions to learn the essence of his job, visiting naval museums to study a German warship, and following a beekeeper during harvest. I’ve developed a method of incorporating the tedious task of research with the fun part of “experiencing” it through the five senses. This is especially helpful to “show, not tell” my readers.

For example, Colonial Williamsburg and Yorktown, both of which are featured in some images of a location or setting of my stories, have restored sites that mirror the locations some of my time travelers visit.

I live not far from the beach and have found secluded coves that match the settings I imagine for a future pirate or seafaring story. My photo of the fog covering the horizon yet leaving the beach and trees visible will help me recreate the scene.

It is a short drive to Washington, DC, or a train ride to New York City to capture the big city elements as well as the historical aspects of both cities.

Every trip engages the five senses, and sometimes what I call my “sixth” sense when I seem able to breathe the very essence of my characters or setting through my research. Sometimes, however, my imagination does a pretty good job of conjuring up before I’ve even seen it.

SIGHT

I like to see the sights of my settings, as close as possible to the real thing. My research journeys have taken me to 18thcentury manor houses, Victorian mansions, and historic settlements to see what the homes and buildings of the past looked like. Visits to breweries, distilleries, and old speakeasies have been integral to my research for my True Spirits Trilogy.

When I visit a site that captures what my imagination is creating, I take a photo to remember details later. What might the characters’ clothes look like? From the deerskinclad Native American to the Colonial soldier, from the Victorian hostess to the 1920s flapper, from the modern firefighter’s turnout gear to the business suit of the female executive, descriptions need to be accurate.

Live demonstrations at battlefields depicted the size and operations of cannons, the outdoor cooking conditions, and the tiny tents nine soldiers had to share.

Colonial pubs, wine cellars, and tasting rooms often capture the settings of the period, with brick walls, candles in lanterns and sconces, wooden benches, and tables.

Sandy beaches, old forests, farmland, and fields capture the essence of nature when you stand in front of any of these locations and your senses take in your surroundings.

SOUND

I’ve been to Native American Indian Powwows, Royal Tattoos, and colonial reenactments to capture the sounds of Indian drums, the swirl of bagpipes, and the thunder of cannons, and I want my reader to experience it too.

Did the native drumbeats send my heart racing as the warrior in war paint approached? It did when I imagined I was a settler facing the unfamiliar sights unfolding in front of me.

Did the swirl of bagpipes put me in the same mood as my characters of Scottish descent? It did when I “joined” their family celebration of Hogmanay. Did that cannon boom put me in the middle of the battle of Yorktown? You bet it did.

Does silk cloth rustle with movement? Does it squish or scrape like taffeta? A minute of my time (not counting an hour to find said materials) can give me the exact sensation I want to portray in the right scene

SMELL

What does gunpowder smell like after a gun has been discharged?

How do I describe the salty smell of the ocean on a hot summer day without going to the beach and concentrating on that single sense? What does a raw fish smell like after sitting on the shore for hours in the hot sun? How does freshly cut grass compare to wet hay after a storm?

Does that decadent smell of coffee bring a sense of relief to battle-worn soldiers or a contemporary character needing the jumpstart ahead of a busy day? How about the aroma of fresh-baked bread in a bakery? Or the smell of sandwiches and fruit when children open their lunches in a schoolroom?

For romantic elements, what kinds of perfume or cologne do the characters wear? Is it a flowery scent for her, a musky, woodsy smell for him?

Can you capture the scent of a building the cold, mold in a dank basement, the wooden floors of an old butcher shop mixed with the overwhelming odor of meat?

TASTE

I want to know about the foods my characters eat, whether they are modern or historical. Is the roast pork tender or tough as leather?

How did the oysters from the James River of Virginia taste to the Native American Indians, or how haggis tastes to a Scotsman, or the dry, hard biscuits called “tack” that were sometimes the colonial soldiers’ only food?

What foods have been a staple throughout the centuries?

Does whiskey (with or without the e, depending on where it comes from) really burn if you take a swig? What kinds of barrels enhance the flavor of a good, spirited drink, and does it make a difference?

Did freshly churned butter taste like the butter we buy from the store? I’ve learned that honey has different tastes if the hives are located next to other agricultural fields.

Does the character have the taste of blood in his or her mouth after being injured? Is it metallic or coppery?

Woman

I want to see and taste what my characters taste in order to describe it well.

FEEL

How does a newborn baby’s skin compare to the aged hands of its grandparent?

What does rough wool feel like to the upperclass woman who has fallen on hard times and no longer wears velvet or cashmere? How about that silk mentioned earlier– can you help your reader feel it in your description?

Does the food your character is eating have a flavor or texture that can alter their experience? An unexpectedly sour taste, chewing on a tough piece of meat, or stale bread can all enhance your story.

The soft fluff of the fiber and the prickly scratch of the bracts of the boll presented two extremes to the difficult harvesting of this crop shown, which will be a feature of a future historical series.

BREATHING

I like to think of a different kind of “sixth sense” the effort to “breathe” in the atmosphere of the settings, and for a brief moment, live like my characters. And hopefully, so will my readers.

Using all of my senses to research my stories has become interesting and fun. I’m resigned to one fact, though. When I’m creating my ghosts and time travel events, I have to rely solely on my imagination for that!

Allie Marie is the author of the awardwinning paranormal and historical mystery books in the “True Colors Series” as well as a standalone sequel and the spin-off “The True Spirits Trilogy.” She has tried her hand at various genres with several short stories, including a very “outside her comfort zone” fantasy adventure novella.

Retired from law enforcement, she is currently working on her first crime thriller and also a cozy mystery novel. She is a frequent speaker and presenter at writing conferences in the United States as well as Europe. When not writing, she enjoys traveling and camping with her husband.

WOMAN

by Maressa Mortimer

Do dishes count?

Or wiping smudged fingerprints off the window?

Should I have that cold coffee or prod my sourdough?

I smile, nod and smile some more. The days are long, but many years have gone before.

I sigh and count.

I count minutes, days, hugs. I count the needed pairs of shoes, the persistent bugs.

But mostly the warm squishy hands, finger fitting around my hand, Whereas only yesterday, their tiny hands covered in sand, Fitted easily in mine, softer still.

I look and count

They all have jobs, they all go places

Each morning, I see them, dashing make-up on faces

Looking neat, organised and important. Do dishes count?

I smile again, with a happy sigh this time. The years will be gone, so will the grime. I will have clean windows and flattering shoes on my feet. It will be me ready to greet, To go places, to have guests and grown-up children.

I sit and count. I count my blessings, over and over in my head.

The list never ending, my soul richly fed.

Maressa Mortimer is Dutch but lives in the beautiful Cotswolds, England with her husband and four (adopted) children. Maressa is a homeschool mum as well as a pastor’s wife, so her writing has to be done in the evening when peace and quiet descend on the house once more. She loves writing Christian fiction, as it’s a great way to explore faith in daily life. All of Maressa’s books are available from her website, www.vicarioushome.com, Amazon or local bookshops.

MINGObyW.JeffBarnes

Reviewed by Lisa Turley

This debut novel by W. Jeff Barnes, a Reader’s Favorites Book Award Winner, is one of the best books I've read! Whether it's the nostalgia of being a West Virginian, the memories it brings back from my dad and gramps being coal miners or the outstanding storytelling skills of the author, this book kept me rapt from the first page!

Set in the coal fields of WV in the early 1900's, brothers Bascom and Durwood fight not only the conflict of the coal wars, but also the inner conflict of being on opposing sides of the battle.

The author did an amazing job of bringing the characters to life and showing the true essence of selfless love.

There are so many lessons to be learned in this story as well as a lot of history about my home state that I was thrilled to discover.

This is a must read and I can't wait to see what this up and coming author brings next!

Lisa Turley is from West Virginia. She is on numerous ARC street teams and reads in multiple genres. She is passionate about helping authors get the word out about their books.

by Cherime MacFarlane

She lived beyond where they blasted through rock and the road is only one lane wide. Above the river, she had a small cabin. She wasn’t too vocal about what brought her to Eastern Alaska. In those days, you didn’t ask. Maybe the person would say, maybe not.

B.J. lived alone in the small cabin on the bluff above the Copper River. We met at the local bar. Other than the church and the school, the only place to socialize. The two of us gravitated together almost immediately. She knew how to do things I needed to learn. Dad told me how it was living in the country, but I’d never had hands on experience. B.J. reiterated all Dad said with a few little Alaska quirks I hadn’t thought of. Since we hadn’t yet spent a winter in the bush, I paid attention.

During the winter, I put into practice what I’d

learned. Come summer, things took a decided turn. My ex, already on the wrong end of alcohol, fell into the bottle. But it didn’t come to a head until the following spring.

The man got it into his head that we weren’t going to the laundry for showers and to wash dirty clothes. No, we were leaving him. Drunk as it gets, he got on one knee and tried to shoot a tire out. That was a big failure. It wound up with him in treatment and me handling everything a man that summer.

He started drinking again. We were over. I went to B.J. and I talked for hours. I realized I needed to leave. She didn’t pressure me but let me come to it in my own time. I never saw her again. B.J. was a friend when I needed one.

Cherime MacFarlane is an award-winning, bestselling, prolific multi-genre author. She has a broad range of interests that reflect her been there-done that life. Discover more about Cherime on the Mom’s Favorite Reads website: https://moms-favorite-reads.com/moms-authors/cherime-macfarlane/

Real Or Nearly Real?

by Gerdie van Wingerden

Real or nearly real?

Silk flowers or real flowers? Sometimes you can find yourself looking at flowers, wondering if they’re real or fake. I have found myself touching a plant, its vibrant colours had to be fake and those little leaves were all the same size and unblemished, but then a leaf came off easily so I wavered. The branches looked so well-made... when I asked the waitress, it turned out the plant was real! Having bright colours and all the leaves looking perfect doesn’t necessarily mean they’re silk flowers...

The opposite happens as well. People smell a beautiful-looking flower, only to find out it’s made of silk! Even my mother-in-law, who is a real plant whiz and who loves flowers commented about my gorgeous roses. And my hanging plant in the kitchen was looking green and succulent... cough cough...I’m sure you’ve guessed it by now…

Silk flowers and fakes

Many people can’t stand silk flowers. They prefer real, scented, living flowers. It might have something to do with the awful fake, plastic-looking flowers people used to have. The kind found on mobile home windowsills, covered in dust. Put there because they were convenient and brightened up the place. Or those flowers whose colours had been bleached by sunlight. Silk flowers nowadays are a totally different matter. They’re so wellmade, it’s hard to tell them apart from real flowers.

Caring for silk flowers

People often ask me how to keep their silk flowers looking good. It’s quite simple, actually. Take the whole bunch just outside and use

the hairdryer or simply blow whilst tapping the flowers. Most of the dust will have gone. Or use a static duster, it will collect the dust. It’s better not to dunk it in a tub with soapy water like we used to do with old-fashioned plastic flowers.

If you feel you’d like to clean them more thoroughly, add a cup of salt to a plastic bag. Put the flowers in and keep hold of the stems. Hold tight to the bag opening, and shake for ten, fifteen minutes. Afterwards, give the flowers a very good shake.

They will look brighter as well, as the dust will have gone. I find that simply giving them a good blowing off and a gentle tapping is all mine need.

Shaking up your silk flowers

You can put your flowers away now and then, like at the end of the summer. If you get a few different bouquets, you can freshen up your rooms by rotating the flowers. Another good idea is to have a few bouquets with general greens, like eucalyptus. You only need to add a few seasonal flowers to spruce up that dull corner in your lounge. Especially now, March is often such a cold, grim month, but Spring is definitely on its way. Adding a few fresh-looking Spring flowers to your home makes it feel warmer already. Bring in those sunny colours and enjoy!

There is more about silk flowers and other helpful ideas on my blog, https:// www.no34.nl/interieur/zijden-bloemen/ and you’re welcome to ask me any question you might have about silk flowers.

Gerdie van Wingerden is a Dutch blogger and mother of four children. She loves to share her passion for homemaking and interior design. Gerdie works in a Home and Giftshop as a stylist, as well offering her services as advisor on her website, No34.nl, where her blogs are regularly posted as well.

Dervla Murphy—Ireland’s Greatest Travel Writer

By John Greeves

to a collection of 9000 before Dervla died in 2022.

In 1963, Dervla set off by bike for India, as she’d long promised herself, returning home a year later when she wrote her first book, Full Tilt. She went armed with a .25 pistol, confronted wolves and thieves but continued on her six month journey. Her route on her Armstrong Cadet men’s bicycle (named Rozinante after Don Quixote’s steed and shortened to Roz) took her through Europe, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan and India. She endured blizzards, heat waves, an attempted rape, scorpion bite, sickness, three broken ribs and travelled on a meagre budget of £64. In Pakistan, she visited Swat, where she was guest of the last wali, Miangul and visited the mountain area of Gilgit.

On her tenth birthday, Dervla Murphy was given a second-hand bicycle by her parents and an atlas from her grandfather. As she puts it, “Already I was an enthusiastic cyclist, though I had never owned a bicycle, and soon after my birthday, I resolved to cycle to India one day. I have never forgotten the exact spot, on a steep hill near Lismore, where this decision was made.” Her parents moved from Dublin to Lismore in Waterford when her father, Fergus Murphy was appointed as county librarian. Shortly after Dervla’s birth (28 November 1931), Kathleen contracted crippling rheumatoid arthritis. By age 14, Dervla was withdrawn from Ursuline convent boarding school in Waterford to become Kathleen’s carer for the next 16 years. Continental trips by bicycle followed with sporadic breaks during this long stint of nursing her invalid mother. Her father died in 1961 and her mother in the following year, leaving her with a house full of books that grew

Dervla, Canada 1991

Dervla and bike, India 1963

Right from the start, Dervla showed an unwavering tolerance to hardship, accepting it as part of the traveller’s lot. During her fifty years of travelling to remote locations, she sustained amoebic dysentery in Pakistan, brucellosis in India, gout and hepatitis in Madagascar and tick bite fever in South Africa.

To her, writing was not a career but a necessity. Her first book Full Tilt, was based on diaries and the opportunity for publication, only came about because of a chance meeting in Delhi with Penelope Chetwode, John Betjeman’s wife. Looking back on her fledgling travel writing career she said, “I started 50 years ago from scratch, with no private income, nothing, and managed to make a living from it. I doubt if any youngster now could do that...it’s changed so much that it would not be possible.”

In all Dervla published 26 travel books which took her to 30 countries. After her first book, Tibetan Foothold (1966) and the Waiting Land (1967), emerged from her work with Tibetan refugees in India and Nepal. A year later, Dervla made her first trip to Africa. She travelled to Ethiopia and walked with a pack mule from Asmara to Addis Ababa, confronted by Kalashnikov carrying soldiers described in her fourth book, In Ethiopia with a Mule.

The rural poverty she encountered on her global travels was no surprise to her, having attended a village primary school with barefoot, hungry children and where tuberculosis was still be found in the community. Dervla normally travelled alone, without luxuries and frequently accepted the hospitality of local people. She had a great capacity for life, approaching each day, person and place with open arms. She arrived at each destination often without social introduction and showed a genuine interest in the people she met and talked to on her travels.

In an interview in 2018, she told me, “My earlier books were about comparatively unspoilt isolated places, where you could walk for instance in the Andes without coming on a single town. I suppose my main ambition was to simply convey to the reader my excitement for the landscape and the people.”

The only period of her life after her mother died when she didn’t travel was after her daughter’s birth. Rachel was born in unconventional circumstance, her father was Terence de Vere White, literary editor, then of the Irish Times who was married at the time. The father’s name was never revealed until he died. Dervla chose to bring up her daughter on her own, disregarding any opposing opinions of the day. She put travelling on hold for several years when Rachel was very small. For five years she wrote book reviews, as well as making notes about her own life. They were published in 1979 as her autobiography, Wheels Within Wheels. Book reviews were something she disliked writing but it provided an income. “I did a lot of book reviewing mainly for the Irish Times, but occasionally for the TLS (Times Literary Supplement). I gave up years ago because they wanted shorter and shorter reviews” and as Dervla admitted, she never had a passion for writing the shorter piece, which was “completely different to writing a book.”

Muddling through in Madagascar. Rachel 14

When Rachel was older she travelled with her mother to other parts of the world. She had her fifth birthday in Kodagu (then called Coorg) in South West India. Later, mother and daughter travelled to Baltistan, Peru, Madagascar (aged14) and Cameroon (aged18) until people began to regard Rachel as an adult.

“Travelling with a small child is a huge advantage,” Dervla said, and in another interview added “A child’s presence emphasises your trust in the community’s goodwill. And because children pay little attention to racial or cultural differences, junior companions rapidly demolish barriers of shyness or apprehension often raised when foreigners unexpectedly approach a remote village,”

Dervla believed that even two adults travelling together can be too many, because local people assume you can depend on one another, whereas, if a solitary traveller turns up, he or she becomes totally dependent and trusting on the local people. Dervla, did break her golden rule once when visiting Cuba in 2005 where she travelled with her daughter, Rachel and her three grandchildren. Two solo trips to Cuba followed in 2006 and 2007 before The Island that Dared: Journeys in Cuba was published. Dervla continued to travel and write into her early 80s. A hip replacement after a fall in Jerusalem in her later years confined Dervla to her austere surroundings in Lismore, a remnant of a 17th century cattle market. It wasn’t a single structure, as we know it, but a range of outbuildings set aside for various uses across a yard. This domestic arrangement never worried Dervla as she crossed outside from the kitchen to another room.

Dervla was a woman of simple and ascetic taste. She never learned to drive. She had no television, washing machine and of course no mobile phone, the only exception being in Gaza where there were no land line phones. She had a set routine, getting up in the morning at 5am and eating a substantial breakfast of homemade muesli, bread and cheese, sometimes eggs, but nothing else for the rest of the day and going to bed at 9.30 pm. She always

felt modern communications were narrowing not widening the world and that they had a negative impact on people’s life. In Jaffa, she remembered staying in a very cheap backpacker’s hostel with all different age groups. In days before modern technology came about, everybody would have exchanged experiences, addresses and advice, instead what she found was nobody talked to their fellow travellers. She described the voiceless, asocial scene as such: “There were a half a dozen computers and people came in in the evenings, they put down their luggage went straight to the computers and communicated to whoever was at the other end.”

Dervla was certainly a woman of strong opinions. She chose not to marry, avoided hotels at all costs and decried the arrival of motorways to remote areas under the banner of progress. She was kind, warm and never considering herself brave or special. She was self-effacing; to help a driver recognise her at Cairo airport she described herself as an “Old white haired woman, semi-toothless, slightly stooped, wearing black slacks and T-shirt with hand luggage only.

All her earlier books were quite different and were based on her daily journal she wrote religiously no matter how tired she was feeling. When she arrived back in Lismore she simply expanded her journal writing into “readable English” and added whatever historical or social information was necessary. Everything was hand written then typed out on her typewriter.

In later years she did acquire a computer for emails which was kept safely away from her study. As to her change as a writer over the 50 years of travel she said: “I don’t think I’ve fundamentally changed as a personality. I’ve become more of an activist and the books have changed, so in that sense I’ve changed.” She was critical of Nato, the World Bank, the International Monetary Fund, and World Trade Organisation. She spoke out against nuclear power and climate change. She recognised the

intrinsic worth of fragile cultures and traditional ways of life on her many travels and questioned the validity of modern progress and

Her Most Popular Books include:

Full Tilt: Ireland to India with a Bicycle

Eight Feet in the Andes: Travels with a Donkey from Ecuador to Cuzco

South from the Limpopo

The Waiting Land

The Ukimwi Road

Transylvania and Beyond: A Travelling

Wheels within Wheels

On a Shoestring to Coorg: A Travel Memoir of India

Muddling through in Madagascar

In Ethiopia with a Mule.

Dervla in Addis, end of trip , June 1967

Dervla and Michael Palin at the RGS Steph Allen

Roz: A well-travelled bicycle.

This is Roz, or Rozinante, the faithful bicycle used by Dervla Murphy for many of her travel adventures. The bike was bought in Dungarvan on January 14th, 1961, and was put to serious service a year later when Dervla began her journey from Dunkirk to Delhi. This would result in the publication of “Full Tilt: Ireland to India with a bicycle” in 1965, the first book by the Lismore born travel writer.

Other books followed, including “Tibetan Foothold, again with Roz; “The Waiting Land: A spell in Nepal”, now with Leo, a brother to Roz! “On a shoestring to Coorg”, this time with the writer bringing her five-year-old daughter Rachel along. With more that 20 titles to her credit, Dervla retired to her hometown of Lismore where she lived quietly until her death on May 22nd 2022.

Dervla donated Roz to Lismore Library and Waterford Council is delighted to have it on display where it will remain and may serve to inspire people with curiosity about foreign places and a yearning for adventure.

John Greeves originally hails from Lincolnshire. He believes in the power of poetry and writing to change people’s lives and the need for language to move and connect people to the modern world. Since retiring from Cardiff University, Greeves works as a freelance journalist who's interested in an eclectic range of topics.

Dervla Murphy, credit Tom Bunning,2014

SAVED

by Penny Luker

I suppose I’d better try and rescue him, he thought.

Liam stood at the top of the bridge and looked over the side. The question was, could he do it? Could he climb over the side and throw himself into the water?

It was dark and the light of a half moon, reflected into the water, indicating the height of the bridge. Liam wasn’t good with heights and to be honest, he felt that he wasn’t good at anything.

He’d been living with Rachel for five years and thought everything was going well, then out of the blue, she’d left him for a computer salesman. The man had been at school with Liam and had always been a selfish, know-it-all. He was devastated that Rachel had left, but even more so that she’d left for the likes of Dan. Nobody would miss him, he thought. His friends all had other friends and his parents had two other children. He needed to be strong for once and get on with it.

He shivered and climbed out onto the rusty blue iron railings and took a deep breath and then he heard a whimper. For a second, he wondered if he’d made the noise himself, but there it was again. He peered deeply into the darkness and gradually made out the outline of a dog.

Now, he didn’t know what to do. The dog was on a ledge below him. Could he even reach him?

His fear of heights left him as he climbed over the structure and made his way downwards. When he reached the petrified animal, he carefully lifted him from the ledge and tucked him into his fleece, partly zipping it up to keep the dog safe. This meant that both his hands were free to climb back up, which was much harder than the climbing down had been. The moon seemed higher in the sky and two jet black eyes peeped at him from his jacket. The smell of the dog wasn’t wonderful; a bit like the stench from a rubbish tip on a hot day. For a moment Liam thought about putting the dog on the ground and getting on with his plan, but he could feel the dog still trembling.

Liam set off for home with his little bundle, stopping off to get some dog food along the way. When he got indoors, he could see the answerphone was flashing, but ignored it and headed for the bathroom. He gave the dog a warm bath and wrapped him in a fluffy towel.

I’ll call him Chance, he thought. It was only by chance I was there tonight and he’s going to have a second chance at life.

When Chance was fed and warm, he settled down on the towel and went fast asleep, so Liam listened to his phone messages. The first was from his mum.

‘Come over for Sunday lunch, Liam. Your brother’s coming down from Liverpool and we’d all love to see you. Hope you can make it. Let me know.’

He thought of his family and how lucky it had been that he’d found Chance. They would have been devastated if he’d gone through with his plan. He was sure they’d love his new companion. The second message was from Andy.

‘Hi Liam, I was thinking of going for a hike on Saturday, ending up at The Plough for lunch. Going to ask Wilf and Tom too. It’d be great to have a catchup. It’s been so hectic at work lately. Give us a call.’

Over the next week Liam was busy. He took Chance to the vet to check if he had a microchip and if anyone had reported him missing. The vet gave the dog a check-up and apart from being a bit underweight, pronounced him healthy. He thought of Rachel a couple of times but Chance kept him busy with walks and snuggles. The pair enjoyed rambling along the river and Liam was surprised how many people stopped for a chat, particularly other dog walkers.

Liam phoned back both his mum and his friend, accepting their invitations and explaining that Chance would be coming along too. Both were excited to meet his new companion.

On Thursday evening, Liam was surprised when he heard a key in the door. Rachel entered the room as if she’d never been away.

‘Hi Liam, I’ve decided to come back. Dan was a bit of a jerk, actually and he always wanted me to pay for everything.’

She put her bag down on the sofa. Chance looked up hopefully, wagging his tail as he approached her. Rachel took a step back.

‘Good grief, what have you brought home? I’m sorry but I’m really not living with a hairy, smelly mutt. I can’t go round covered in dog hair. I’m afraid it’s either the dog or me. You’ll have to make a choice.’

‘There is no choice,’ said Liam and Rachel smiled, until he held out his hand. ‘I’ll have my front door key back. The lease is in my name and I’ve always paid the rent.

In one movement, Rachel slung the key on the floor, picked up her bag and left, slamming the door behind her.

Liam expected to feel the sadness overwhelm him again, but instead he felt relief. He sat back down on the sofa and patted the space beside him for Chance to hop up. Chance snuggled in and looked up to Liam with adoring jet-black eyes.

‘Thank you for saving me, Chance. You’re such a good boy, and Chance thumped his tail repeatedly on the sofa cushions.

Penny Luker is a writer and artist from Cheshire. She writes novels, short stories and poetry for adults, and also writes children’s stories. You can find her work at www.pennyluker.wordpress.com or http:// author.to/PennyLuker

The Footprints We Leave

by Marsali Taylor

Marsali Taylor and her family are given the chance to return to the past – the little Highland cottage where they spent their childhood summers.

Launching the boat at the head of the remote Highland loch was like coming home. The hills rose above us, cradling the still water; the air was loud with the sound of burns tumbling to the sea. As I rowed over to the Barrisdale pier, with my grandchildren sitting just as my sister Joan and I used to sit when we went with Dad to meet the Invergarry shop van, the scenery suddenly clicked into its familiar position: the view straight down the loch, with the Devil’s Head, the lion’s paw cradling Runeval, the island, all backed by the pointed peak and ridge of Ladhr Behinn. The beloved names flooded back as we putted down the loch, and I told them to the children: Skiary, the Jumping Stone, the Rushing River, Tor-a-choit, see, there, tucked into its bay between the trees, that grey-stone cottage with the white porch. Ours again after forty years.

My dad cleared the landing place before I was born, rolling stray beach boulders into a line, and filling behind them with stones. Later this week, Joan and I would spend an hour repairing one tumbled section, and our brother Niall cleared the seaweed-covered rocks when the tide fell to its lowest. As soon as we arrived, the children headed straight for the rocks where we used to play, and started making a den, while we took the bags in.

Time fell away. That M shape cut into the doorstep, and the shelves under the porch window, still filled with midge-deterrent and rubber boots. The cracked white paint on the inner double door – and then we were inside, home again. My heart leapt to every forgotten familiar thing as I headed upstairs to take possession of my own room: the large coir mat in the hall, those black rubber treads on the cornered staircase, cut to fit from a roll of rubber matting, tacked down: Dad’s work too. The mass of trunks on the landing, to keep the bedding safe from mice over winter; the little door into the room where the Elsan toilet was. My bedroom, the skylight replaced by a

metre-square dormer window looking straight across the loch - glorious. Hideous chintz curtains; two beds with sugar-pink counterpanes, facing longways in the room. I wondered for a moment if I should put one back to the ‘right’ place, but decided not to bother. I laid my clothes behind the ochre-striped curtain, on the shelves where I kept the striped shorts and faded t-shirts that appear in every childhood photo. In her room, Joan found a shelf with our Enid Blyton detective stories, and the 50s Agatha Christie novels.

our dinner by firelight, then the children were coaxed to bed in what had been Mum and Dad’s room, lit by flickering tea-lights in scallop shells.

In Mum’s memory, Joan and I decided to have a morning swim, because that’s what always woke us: the sound of Mum splashing. We were first up the next morning. Joan put the kettle on, to fortify us, but I knew I’d never go in if I thought about it. We hauled on our swimsuits, slung our towels around our shoulders and scrunched down the garden path. The tide was just two yards from the gate. We laid the towels on the landing-place boulders and waded in. The sea was icy but we kept going – ankles, knees, thighs and start swimming. The cold stopped my breath for a second. Swim, swim, counting the strokes ... fifteen, twenty, thirty, turn round quick and pull hard for the shore. By the time we reached it we were gasping for breath; the morning air was blessedly warm by contrast. A quick towel dry, flapping the midges away, dress and then that cup of tea!

Kettle on. ‘Look,’ Joan said, ‘our heights are still behind the door.’ So they were, the yearly ritual of measuring, with the heights of the new tenant’s children and grandchildren on the neighbouring plank. Later in the week we added the next two generations, my daughter Marnie and nephew Iain, my grandchildren Maxie and Ava. The kitchen now boasted a four-ring cooker with an oven; the big fireplace was the same, with a laid fire ready: we got a match to it straight away. Niall’s little bedroom had become a functional bathroom, with a bath, and a large hot-water tank beside it (though in the end we didn’t use it; even handy-man Niall took one look at the boiler and said he wasn’t touching it). We ate

Being back brought our parents back: Dad, in his grey and white jumper and fawn shorts, striding over the hills with his horse’s-head stick, and Mum, young and tall, with her fall of dark hair held back by an Alice band, and her flared fifties skirt with the watermelon pattern. I made scones, just as she did, and the children helped make doll-sized pancakes for a teaparty, just as I helped her. We spread them with jam and ate them frying-pan hot.

We grew up with our rowing boat, taking the oars as soon as we were big enough to hold them. The cottage’s current boat was a plastic rowing boat, very stable but not great to row. I took Maxie out, trailing a darrow; he didn’t catch anything, but Iain did, four mackerel. The children were fascinated, going from fear of the way they flapped to ghoulish delight as the heads were cut off and the guts thrown to the seagulls. Ava wouldn’t eat any; Maxie reckoned they were delicious. Evenings by the fire got through the woodpile, but Joan Steve spotted a large log on the rocks, and Iain and I towed it back with the rowing boat. It was too heavy for four of us to lift

high tide bring it up, and left it for the next visitor with a chainsaw.

There were two sit-on kayaks by the cottage. These were much easier to paddle than our old blow-up canoe. Maxie and I had first go, paddling along the shore to the point, where a basking seal was watching us with interest. Ava wasn’t impressed: ‘It’s cold. It’s wet. I don’t like it!’ By the time I came back from the fishing expedition with Iain, she was in her wetsuit, wielding her paddle confidently, dashing along the shoreline and making reckless sorties out to the edge of the seaweed line. I stood guard with the rowing boat, just as Dad used to, tanned, binoculars round his neck, resting on his oars.

The family divided into different combinations of generations. Niall’s girlfriend Lynne and Ava went up the hill and came back with a flower crown pleated into Ava’s hair: bog cotton, bog asphodel, a marsh orchid. Niall introduced Iain and Maxie to the boys’ peeing corner by the rushing river (Joan and I hadn’t even known it existed). Marnie, her husband Sam and the children tramped through the fairy wood to Smugglers’ Bay. Joan and I went kayak expeditions to the Devil’s Head and Runeval. Each evening, we sat by the wood-scented fire and enjoyed the silence.

The wild-life Dad had shown us was there still. Niall saw deer in the garden one night. Porpoises guided Iain and me to the fish. Joan saw an otter one morning, and a seal inspected our kayak paddling from ten yards away. We smelled Foxy’s den in a rock cave on one walk. I woke up to see bats blowing like dead leaves across my dormer window, on their way back into their roof roost. A palm wide dragonfly buzzed through the garden, and foxes dug up Steve’s rubbish pit. Sannie snake’s descendent popped his head out of the hole in the doorstep one sunny afternoon, and the cottage toad’s grandson crawled across the path on our last morning.

It was wonderful to take my daughter and grandchildren to the world of our childhood. The footprints we leave are memories handed on.

Images

1. Going back fifty years: my mother with Joan, Niall and I in our boat – I’m the one getting wet!

2. My parents at the cottage, back in the early sixties, with our Siamese cat Chula on Dad’s shoulders.

3. Looking down the loch in dramatic mood: the point, the island, and the peak of Ladhr Bheinn.

4. Granny on guard for Ava trying out the sit-on kayak.

5. My London grandchildren having fun in the country, just as we did.

6. Marsali having fun kayaking, with the cottage in the background.

Marsali Taylor grew up in Edinburgh, and studied English at Dundee University before teacher training college. She moved to the Shetland Isles for her first teaching post, and loved it so much that she’s stayed there ever since. She’s now the author of ten Shetland-set detective stories starring liveaboard sleuth Cass Lynch and her partner DI Gavin Macrae. She’s also published a history of women’s fight for the vote and articles for a local magazine Shetland Life . She has a monthly column in Practical Boat Owner. Apart from writing, she spends her summer messing around on the water in her 8m yacht Karima S, and her winters involved in the village pantomime.

A TRIP BACK TO 1860

by Chantal Bellehumeur

The Girard family wanted to do something unique for their fall vacation. They became interested in visiting a historical Upper Canada style village consisting of buildings from the nineteenth century, and found the perfect lodging on site. The original log cabin, relocated to the village along with the other old structures, included modern conveniences.

guest sheet to enter the outdoor museum by the main entrance only, the Girards rebelliously disobeyed and walked down the dirt path from their cabin. A wooden barricade with a huge “DO NOT ENTER” sign should have stopped them from going any further, but they ignored it.

When they climbed over the barricade, the village suddenly came to life. Men and women dressed in 1860’s style clothing walked around, giving the family strange looks. Horse-drawn carriages went by. One of them stopped in front of the general store for a delivery.

A mischievous looking boy bumped into Garry. He ran away as Garry stumble forward, his foot landing in a pile of horse excrements. Julia supressed a giggle when her husband complained.

“Shall we visit a building?” she suggested, map in hand.

The door was locked when they got to the physician’s house, so Julia used the door knocker. A well-coiffed woman answered and politely asked what they needed.

Julia, her husband Garry, and their fourteenyear-old son Mathew purchased special outfits to live the full experience. It was easy for the men to find suitable clothing at the thrift store; dress pants, dress shirts, vests, bowties, and flat caps. The only thing out of place were their sneakers. Julia found a lovely Victorian dress online, but didn’t realise it wasn’t fashionable for the year she would be visiting. It was too revealing, plus her outfit lacked a hat and gloves. She found the perfect brooch though.

Although it was clearly indicated on their

“We’re just here to visit,” Julie answered.

“We don’t do visits,” the woman stated. “Only house calls.”

The Girards remained on the large porch, looking confused. “Are we supposed to invent a medical need?” Julia whispered.

“There’s nothing in the pamphlet about role playing…” Garry told his wife it was worth a try.

“Our son’s sick and needs a doctor,” Julia finally said.

“Where are you staying? I’ll send my husband shortly.”

“Just down the street,” Julia answered.

“At the hotel? Which room?”

Before Julia could answer, the woman added: “If you’re going to stay in this village a while, find something suitable for church.”

I guess I should visit the dressmaker,” Julia said after the woman shut the door.

As the Girards walked towards that house, Matthew pointed out wanted posters glued to the wooden fences. There were also several warnings to watch out for pick-pocketers. Garry instinctively put his hand in his pocket and realised his wallet was gone.

“That kid!”

Julia noticed children playing in the yard of the small schoolhouse. She thought her husband was referring to one of them but he wasn’t looking in their direction.

“I can’t believe he stole my wallet.”

Recalling the mischievous boy, Julia told her husband they could report him after speaking to the dressmaker. They were already there, and Julia asked the dressmaker to help with her outfit, hoping she could rent out a full costume with accessories. When the woman told her the surprisingly low fee, Julia took out her wallet and presented her credit card. Realising she needed to pay cash, she then presented a twenty-dollar bill with a picture of Queen Elizabeth II on it.

Julia made a respectful comment about the Queen’s passing which agitated the dressmaker. “When did Queen Victoria die? I didn’t read it in the newspaper.”

Thinking the dressmaker was simply playing her role, Julia apologised for her mistake and tried to give her the twenty-dollar bill again. The dressmaker glanced at it and told Julia to come back when she had real money.

“Do we have to get tokens or something at the main entrance?” Julia asked. The dressmaker gave her a blank stare.

Julia looked at her pamphlet and couldn’t find anything relevant.

“This place is strange,” Mathew said, and

Julia agreed. She thought the acting of each character was well played yet too intense.

A bell rang. When Julia looked up, she saw the children forming two lines in front of the school house; one for boys, the other for girls. The teacher came out, held his hand to his heart, and collapsed.

Having recently completed her first-aid refresher course, Julia ran towards the school and checked the man’s pulse and breathing. Nothing.

“Call 9-1-1,” she told her husband as she began chest compressions. “And go to the admissions building. Tell a staff member their teacher had a heart attack. Come back with a defibrillator if possible.”

“There’s no reception,” Garry stated in a panic. The children pointed at his cellphone, asking what it was.

Julia continued her fast compressions, not stopping once to give breaths since she didn’t have a CPR mask. It was the new way she’d

been taught. “Run to admissions then!”

“I’ll get help!” an older boy volunteered. By the time the boy arrived with the local physician, Julia had revived the teacher. She was exhausted and traumatised from hearing the man’s ribs crack. He complained about the pain and the doctor yelled at Julia, “What did you do?”

“She brought Mr. Garrison back to life!” a little girl announced. “Yeah” the other children confirmed. “With her magic,” a boy stated. Oh no, Julia thought. Are these people really living in the past? Do they think I’m a witch? Did they burn witches at the stake in 1860? They can’t legally do that now,” she reasoned.

The physician grabbed Julia by the arm and demanded she follow him. Julia tried to resist, but he was too strong and she had not recovered her energy.

“Find your father,” she told Mathew. As Julia was being tugged along the dirt road, observed by other villagers, she spotted Garry’s wallet. The contents were scattered on the ground. She didn’t understand why somebody would steal a wallet but not take anything. Then something dawned on her. It didn’t make sense, but Julia feared she and her family had literally travelled back in time.

Julia was ignored when asked what year it was, and soon placed in a jail cell. Sitting on the cold concrete floor, she pondered on her fate. She wondered if she’d get a fair trial, and what her punishment might be if she were found guilty. She imagined being hung and it made her nauseous. She was given stale bread and water with her continued silent treatment.

The next day, Julia heard Garry and Mathew’s voices near her barred window.

“We went back to the cabin but a family lives there,” Garry announced. “They thought we were breaking in so the older boys chased us.”

This confirmed Julia’s illogical theory.

“We managed to find shelter in an old barn for the night and stole an apple pie cooling

on a windowsill. We also managed to grab vegetables from a garden.”

Garry dropped pieces of lettuce and a carrot into the cell which Julia devoured.

“What are we going to do?” Mathew asked his parents.

“See if the pastor can help you while we figure this mess out,” Julia suggested. “It’s just a misunderstanding.”

“And if he turns us away?” Garry asked.

“I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but take advantage of everyone being in church tomorrow. Break into houses and steal as much food, money, and clothes as you can.”

They didn’t have to do any of this since Julia was released moments later. Mr. Garrison came to his senses and was thankful for Julia’s actions. “You saved my life, so I’d like to help you in return.” He invited the family to stay with him and his wife on a short-term basis, and offered to help them get jobs.

When asked what his skills were, Garry said he was a ‘Jack of all trades’. Mr. Garrison started enumerating potential jobs for him; tin maker, broom maker, shoemaker, cabinet maker. “The saw mill or flour mill could use a strong man, and my father-in-law also needs an extra pair of hands at the Gazette.” Garry agreed to work for the printing office.

“The blacksmith is looking for an apprentice,” Mathew was told. The boy never worked a day in his life but realised he didn’t have a choice now.

“The wool factory is hiring, and my wife could use help with the house chores and spinning.” Julia nodded at this. She knew there weren’t many options for her.

Mrs. Garrison was welcoming and lent Julia some proper clothing. There were so many layers to put on! When Julia was fully dressed, she was expected to help in the kitchen right away. It was hard work, but well worth the effort.

Over a delicious chicken dinner, Mr. Garrison asked where the Girards were from and what brought them to Morrisburg.

Julia dared not say she was from the future, at the risk of sounding insane. She invented a story about her village up north burning down. “We lost everything, including our horses.”

“That’s terrible!” Mrs. Garrison stated. “You can stay here as long as you need to.”

Unfortunately, another tragedy hit and the Girards were blamed for it. A fire started in the Garrison’s house and quickly spread from one building to the next. The community was unable to dump water buckets on the growing flames fast enough.

Julia woke up in a sweat, relieved to see she was inside the rented cabin. “What a nightmare!”

“I had a bad dream too,” Mathew said.

“As did I,” Garry announced.

The family discussed how they all travelled back to 1860 in their dreams.

Mathew said the blacksmith never actually taught him anything. “Watch and learn,” was all he ever told me. “I managed to make a hook though.”

“I learned something,” Garry stated. “While picking each letter one by one to form words for the press, I collected the uppercase letters from the top case and the lowercase letters from the bottom case. I realised that’s why they’re called uppercase and lowercase letters.”

“Fascinating,” Julia responded. “I was fired form the wool factory because I was a terrible weaver, but managed to figure out how to spin a wheel at the right speed.”

As the family started getting ready for the day, they each pondered on their strange collective dream. Mathew noticed a burn mark on his hand, Garry found the letter G in his pant pocket, and Julia discovered dyed wool among her belongings.

Julia opened the door to the cabin. She was relieved to see several people wearing modern clothing walking by.

Chantal Bellehumeur is a Canadian author. She has several published novels of various genres as well as short stories, poems and articles featured in compilation books, magazines, plus a local newspaper. For a complete list of publications, including free reads, visit: https://author-chantal-bellehumeur.webnode.com/products-/

FLASH

FICTION by Allison Symes

Theme for March—Celebrating Women

This makes a great topic for flash fiction and non-fiction and so apt for the theme of International Women’s Day this month. My challenge this time is for both, though I’m sharing an example of my flash fiction for this one.

For fiction, you could take your female character and show us through her actions and attitudes what makes her worth celebrating. What does she achieve? Readers will need to see the achievement is of the utmost importance to her and why it is should be understandable too.

For example, if she is trying to pass exams to get to college, why does getting to that college matter? Is this her first go at those exams or has she had to come back from past failures and pluck up courage to try again?

Again, for fiction, you could show a female character overcoming the odds (which is mytake with my story below) and there can be a crossover with non-fiction here.

Take the wonderful example of Marie Curie. Think about how much she achieved with her scientific discoveries. You could write a flash non-fiction piece about her and why we should celebrate her. You could also fictionalize one aspect to her remarkable life and show us this in a story. You could do both!

Given the challenge is for a maximum of 300 words as usual, it pays to focus on one thing to celebrate about the woman you’re writing about, even if it is someone you’ve invented. For flash non-fiction, you could hint at other things your woman should be celebrated for as that would, I hope, trigger readers to find out more about your subject.

One of the things I love most about flash is it does make you focus and I’ve found that helpful for other forms of writing too.

Writing down a few notes as to what makes your character special (whether you’re writing flash fiction or non-fiction) would pay off here. I often do this. A few notes as to why I want to write this character up helps me fine tune my idea and I then hit the ground running with my first draft. I’ve done this with my flash piece here.

Why not try writing flash fiction and non-fiction on this great theme? As ever, I look forward to seeing what you come up with and my piece is below.

Flash Fiction

Character: Jasmine

Reason Why Special: Finds her own way of supporting the women of her world. Is considered weak by others.

Plot Line: Has to overcome a corrupt official and a dragon threatening her world.

The Right Person, The Right Job

‘What do you mean? Send Jasmine, weakest of my magical children? Much as I wish Jasmine would improve magically, that dragon isn’t having her!’

‘It requires a sacrifice, master. I thought…’

‘My Jasmine was disposable. Send her here.’

‘Father, I’m already here. I like eavesdropping. Your Lord Chancellor wants me to go because he dislikes women. We are all the same to him. I will tackle the dragon.’

‘Jasmine, that brute will kill you.’

‘I have an idea, Father. If it works, our realm need never fear that beast again. If it doesn’t, the dragon gets its sacrifice.’

‘But…’

‘Father, you know as I do, someone must tackle that dragon. If I succeed, it is to be enshrined in law women must have the same rights as men, and the Lord Chancellor can live on a planet where they don’t treat women well. He’d like that.’

‘Princess…’

‘Lord Chancellor, don’t try your false protestations of caring for women on me. We know you don’t. Why else repeatedly send women

to prison for twice the length of sentence as men for the same crime?’ ***

Three hours later

‘Finished packing, Lord Chancellor?’

‘You royal brat…’

‘What did you call my daughter, ex Lord Chancellor?’

‘Sorry, Sire.’

‘Apologise to Princess Jasmine.’

‘If you insist, Sire.’

‘I do. On your knees and off you go. Your transport awaits.’

‘Could I ask how did the Princess make the dragon fly off and promise to leave us be?’

‘Lord Chancellor, I gave her a job. She’s not been well treated by males in her time either. She is now the King’s Flight. You are leaving this world by dragon. It should not be a bumpy ride though it may be short. Oh and, Father, I am to become our world’s first Lady Chancellor, yes?’

Celebrating My Mother

by Jennifer Sanders

What happened to the girl in the photograph?

friends. Now standing trim in Guide uniform; seated round a bonfire; here she is laughing in fancy dress at a summer camp in a blurry field.

I see her there smiling - disingenuous and carefree, relaxed and uninhibited - from black and white images; long plaits wound round her head, bright eyes, and ready smile.

Here she is as a teenager with her family; there she is perched on a gate with her

Here she is as a student midwife, each swaddled bundle a trophy of care; and now a staff midwife supervising others with enviable efficiency, and teaching her Jamaican friend how to ride a bicycle. Look as she stands astride the motorbike she loved, which first piqued the interest and drew the admiring eye of a young chemist

But where did she go?

Now she sits, bent over the Telegraph crossword, the day dictated by routine, and medical appointments; the slow hours measured and regulated by her shopping, meal times, Countdown, and the inevitable night time Horlicks, interspersed with visits to her husband of almost 60 years, himself stooped and confused in the local care home.

And I wonder what she thinks about at night when sleep evades her, anxieties torment her, and her body reminds her of her octogenarian limitations.

I ponder on Shakespeare’s seven ages of man and consider where I feature in his sobering summation of life. Am I graciously accepting of my circumstances, or fighting the specter of the Grim Reaper with every fiber of my being?

Do the women in my life who walk a step or two ahead of me inspire me for the final laps; to run with courage, fortitude, perseverance, gratitude, and twinkling good humour?

I choose to say, ‘Yes.’

Many women treated this new-style census with suspicion, believing that the Government was intruding into their personal lives. In addition, many suffrage groups had grown increasingly frustrated by the Government’s broken promises regarding enfranchisement for women. (A People’s Suffrage Bill had been rejected in favour of a Man Only Bill).

Some Suffrage leaders urged women to boycott the census – by staying out of their home overnight or by refusing to complete the form (which carried the risk of a £5 fine or imprisonment.)

Women boycotted the 1911 census in a number of ways. Some refused to provide the information. Others spoiled the form by marking themselves as ‘head of the household’ or by writing on the form ‘No vote. No census’. Many women went into hiding or moved about all night so that they couldn’t be recorded.

Newspaper reports provide information about women’s actions that night. In London, Suffragettes held a picnic on Wimbledon Common with banners proclaiming, ‘If women don’t count, neither shall they be counted’. Similar tales unfolded across the UK.

No Vote No Census – Women And The 1911 UK Census Boycott

by Sheena Macleod

The year 1911 was a census year in the UK. For the first time ever, the ‘head of the family’, usually a man, was asked to provide the Government with women’s personal details.

This included their work details, how long the women had been married, their disabilities, and how many children they had (including how many had died). The ‘householder’ was required to provide these details for everyone who spent census night on their property.

Dundee Women and Kettle Bilers

by Wendy H. Jones

The city of Dundee, Scotland, is one forged by whaling, jam, jute, journalism, and strong women.

It’s time to celebrate Dundee Women, the stalwarts of the jute trade. Like many women of her generation my grandmother, Mary Lawson, was a weaver in the jute mills. Never one to shirk hard work, she was able to run three looms at once, no mean feat considering she was only five feet tall. She loved being a weaver and told everyone who would listen it was the best job in the world.

Day after day, six days a week, she laboured in the mills. This was not easy work but demanding. She did this in addition to raising six children.

The workforce of the Dundee jute mills was made up of 80% women, which left few jobs for the men.

As whaling became less important to the economy, the other main industry was ship building and work in the extensive dockyard. However, women still made up most of those of working age in Dundee and many men found themselves unemployed and stuck at home looking after the children – hence the name kettle bilers or kettle boilers to use English rather than the Dundee vernacular. These men were often looked down on.

However, it is not their story but that of the women we celebrate. The strong, independent, feisty Dundonian women who helped shape the city into what it is today. I am proud to be a descendant of one of them.

Let’s hear it for the women.

Website: and story videos, is at https://www.youtube.com/channel/ UCPCiePD4p_vWp4bz2d80SJA/

With

magazine,

http://chandlersfordtoday.co.uk/

Allison Symes, who loves reading and writing quirky fiction, is published by Chapeltown Books, CafeLit, and Bridge House Publishing. Her flash fiction collections, Tripping The Flash Fantastic and From Light to Dark and Back Again are out in Kindle and paperback. She has been a winner of the Waterloo Arts Festival writing competition three years in a row where the brief was to write to a set theme to a 1000 words maximum.

her non-fiction hat on, Allison blogs for online

Chandler’s Ford Today, often on topics of interest to writers. Her weekly column can be found at

author/allison-symes/

I don’t know about you, but taking more than one child shopping counts as a double workout, I’m sure. The amount of calories one burns off on an expedition like that carries on well into the night, possibly even the following morning.

I remember pushing a shopping trolley around supermarkets with the littlest inside the trolley, the trickier ones made to hold on for dear life and the more responsible ones merely holding on. On no account should any of them lose touch with the trolley.

Once they grew a little older, shopping became more like one of those crazy games where you need to watch out for opponents, hold on to your playing pieces and score points at the same time. Suddenly, little hands could reach all kinds, none of them fitted in the child seat of the trolley and they could find their way around the shop. Not shopping on an empty stomach became more important than ever.

Going into town is an endurance session. Not only is our local town built on a hill, but my kids are also definitely fitter than I am. They also have their favourite shops and a lot of needs. Needing new shoes, needing new pens, needing a snack from their favourite shop and needing books or games. I just need more oxygen to be available in the air as I follow them uphill. And I need coffee, to calm down again and be clearer on our needs and wants. Maybe we need to get back to all of them walking within my reach. Or even better, maybe they’re nearly old enough to get that Saturday job, and they’ll soon see the difference between needing a book and simply having to have a new book.

Passersby were quick to comment, “You’ve got your hands full!” My daughter especially would look at me, wondering what I would say to that. My standard answer was, “Oh yes! But full of good things!” And it was true, but that didn’t mean they could let go of the trolley... I had various straps and handles attached to the pushchair as well, so they all had a little place they could hold on to, making it easier to cross roads without it counting as Extreme Sports.

Maressa Mortimer is Dutch but lives in the beautiful Cotswolds, England with her husband and four (adopted) children. Maressa is a homeschool mum as well as a pastor’s wife, so her writing has to be done in the evening when peace and quiet descend on the house once more. All of Maressa’s books are available from her website, www.vicarioushome.com, Amazon or local bookshops.

by Wendy H. Jones

Around America in 50 Books Indiana

to keep any crime aficionado happy. The main character, Mark Novak is a man of contradictions who shows real tenacity in not giving up despite the best efforts of the local population to stop him. He is very real, and I could feel both his heartache and his pain as he pushes on despite the odds.

What of the setting; did I get a sense of Indiana. I can say I got a real sense of smalltown Indiana and the descriptions of the cave systems were outstanding. I felt I was there which was extremely uncomfortable at times

Last Words by Michael Koryta

Private investigator Mark Novak is still mourning the death of his wife, and it's affecting his work. With his future on the line, Mark is sent to check out a case in the Midwest town of Garrison, home to a famous but perilous cave system. A girl has died in the caves, and the man who brought her out is still believed by many to be her killer. He begs Novak to uncover what really happened.

But Garrison is the kind of place where cold cases stay cold. Mark tries to delve into the town's secrets, but in the end, he will have to match his wits against the man who knows the caverns better than anyone. A man who seems to have lost his mind. A man who seems to know Mark Novak all too well.

Review

Overall, I enjoyed the book, found it to be well written and had a real sense of chill factor. The characterisation is strong, the plot well written and the mystery has enough twists and turns

My choice of holiday would not involve caving. Koryta shows a real talent for providing rich descriptions which place the reader firmly at the centre of the setting.

Wendy H. Jones is the award winning, international best-selling author of the DI Shona McKenzie Mysteries, Cass Claymore Investigates Mysteries, Fergus and Flora Mysteries, Bertie the Buffalo children’s books and the Writing Matters books for writers. She is also a writing and marketing coach and the President of the Scottish Association of Writers. You can learn more about Wendy on her website: https://www.wendyhjones.com/

Picture of Indiana Town

Picture is of the caves

Seasonal Crystal Grids

by Lisa Shambrook

March

The spring equinox is marked with Ostara on the 20th of March. It’s the second spring festival on the Wheel of the Year, celebrating life, replenishment, nourishment, and rebirth. Light and dark of the day and night are equal and spring is everywhere as new flowers and buds burst forth. It often coincides with Easter, though this year Easter is in April. Eggs are one of the most well-known symbols of Ostara, representing fertility and birth.

Ostara, Spring Rebirth is a crystal grid for Compassion, Joy, and Peace, celebrating the dawn of spring. A central Garnierite and Angelite both bring compassion and peace, surrounded by the high energy of Herkimer Diamonds, Lemurian Quartz, and Clear Quartz for healing and clarity. A Rose Quartz egg, and Kunzite offer heartfelt love. Citrine, Strawberry Quartz with Goethite, and Prehnite bring happiness and healing. Rainbow Moonstone for peace and harmony, Blue Lace Agate and Blue Topaz bring confidence, inspiration, and fulfilment.

Crystal Grids made by Lisa Shambrook for mindfulness, meditation, and art. Prints of some grids are available at:

www.amaranthalchemy.etsy.com.

You can find out more about the sensory author and artist, who will lift your spirit, steal your heart,

She also loves dragons and squirrels.

Lisa Shambrook is an author, artist, and dreamer who loves dragons. Born and raised in vibrant Brighton, England, living by the ocean heavily influenced her lyrical and emotional writing. She now lives in Carmarthen, West Wales, another town rich in legend and lore. A sensory writer, Lisa delves into sensitive subject matters that will lift your spirit and steal your heart.

Find out more at her website lisashambrook.com and her Etsy shop

amaranthalchemy.etsy.com

REFLECTIONS LECTIONS

LentbyMaressaMortimer

Micah 6:8

We’re in the middle of Lent, which many people keep. To me, it’s a confusing name, as it’s similar to the Dutch word for Spring, Lente. Lent is kept by many Christians around the world and is similar to Advent. Lent is more solemn, as it’s the forty days leading up to Easter when Christians remember the death and resurrection of Jesus.

I didn’t grow up in a church where Lent was kept, so it was new to me when coming to England. Many of my friends would give up chocolate or television for those six weeks, after a good feast of pancakes. Some people would be more traditional and go without meat and fish during those weeks. It is a time to refocus on faith and a joining in faith with Jesus.

There are some lovely devotionals around specifically for Lent, which many people find helpful. Others join in with a forty-day challenge to be more giving, more generous and show acts of kindness.

Of course, Lent as such is not in the Bible, but the Bible does talk about the way God wants us to live, not just during Lent, although Lent is a great place to readjust our focus. So in the book of the prophet Micah, near the end of the Old Testament, the prophet tells the people: He has shown you, O man, what is good; And what does the Lord require of you but to do justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God?

That’s the essence of Lent and all the days of the year. It’s not about what we stop ourselves from eating or enjoying. It’s not even being more involved with our church or our Bible. It’s something we can all do, wherever we are. It’s also harder than not watching television or staying away from social media for six weeks.

I hope this year Lent will be special to you and I pray for justice and mercy to be planted around our world as Spring will show its new life all around us.

MaressaMortimerisDutchbutlivesinthebeautifulCotswolds,Englandwithherhusbandandfour(adopted)children. Sheisahomeschoolmumandapastor’swife,.SheloveswritingChristianfiction,asit’sagreatwaytoexplorefaithin dailylife.Herbooksareavailablefromherwebsite,www.vicarioushome.com,Amazonorlocalbookshops.

STEPPING OUT

by Jenny Sanders

I can’t seem to read anything these days without stumbling across the phrase, self-care.

This seems to cover everything from carving out fifteen minutes for a soak in the bath (pure bliss), to booking a curated weekend in some fancy spa to pamper, preen and pontificate and stretch in meditation classes, while eating little more than dust and apricots, but being waited on hand and foot (chance would be a fine thing); all for the price of a small house in London.

While I haven’t plunged into this high-end level of self care/indulgence/denial, I have recently discovered the joy of a simple pedicure.

Bear in mind that I have never been been a big fan of feet. Apart from for walking; obviously.

Anatomically and physiologically, they are amazing, yet simultaneously odd. They aren’t pretty, they’re often not all that hygienic, and the older we get the more peculiar their shape becomes. I know people who find feet so revolting that they simply won’t touch them; not even their own. I’m not sure where that phobia comes from. It’s especially odd, when I think about how cute and kissable baby feet always seem to be. Who hasn’t enjoyed playing, ‘this little piggy went to market’, with the most adorable, perfect micro-person’s trotters at one time or another? Is it, perhaps, because they are feet in miniature, and pretty much anything in miniature is more appealing. (That’s certainly true for the gas bill; maybe less true for a diamond…)

All this explains why I am advocating for prettying up our feet in whatever way possible. I can assure you, from recent experience, that there’s something very relaxing about plunging your feet into a bowl of bubbly hot/warm water

and letting them soak for a while; especially after a long haul at the office/laptop/laboratory/ studio/gym/classroom/court/medical centre, or wherever you spend the majority of your working day.

I have always had very ticklish feet so, on my first visit, I was super concerned that I might simply kick some unfortunate beautician in the face should she go anywhere near my feet. Since that is precisely what I had booked for, it would have been a sad start to a very short session. By serious concentration and superhuman willpower, I have managed to overcome that eventuality; so far.

It can’t be the nicest job in the world, filing the dead skin from someone else’s feet but, much like cleaning the cooker, it could be immensely satisfying. I mean, at least you see the results fairly quickly. Perhaps the best thing about the procedure, especially if you are a non-feet-touching person, is that someone else gets to do that.

Not so very long ago, there was a popular fad of having your feet nibbled by Garra rufa – a species of fish who, apparently, enjoyed a diet of old skin. The theory was that they would remove all your rough/dead/calloused skin, leaving your extremities as smooth as those little baby tootsies we admire so much. This fashion hit the buffers in several countries when it was discovered that in reality, these fish were less keen on a diet of your old epidermis and were actually starving, to the point they would eat anything, including your old skin cells.

Animal cruelty has been flagged in many a beauty treatment in the past, alerting us to practices which we can’t condone and so we look for alternatives.

In truth, the whole fish thing never appealed to me very much. I much prefer the ministrations of a team of wonderful, trained, pedicure goddesses. They give themselves to the filing of nails and exfoliating of feet using a rough file (or, in extreme cases, the equivalent of an angle grinder) with flair and skill.

My feet took quite a battering when I hiked around the Isle of Wight with my two sisters last summer, one of whom was celebrating a significant birthday. The combination of blisters and bunions that made their unwelcome presence felt, compelled me to reassess my self-care in the foot department. Pedicures were promptly bumped up the priority list.

Hence, I found myself wriggling my toes in the pleasant foot bath provided by a salon in Cape Town prior to energetic exfoliating. Once I had been freshly scraped, I luxuriated further by reclining in my padded throne, and drifted off to my happy place while my tired

pins were gently massaged. Creams and unguents were subsequently applied. The only stressful part of the process, I found, was choosing from the multitudinous colours which were on offer for painting my freshly buffed toenails. This dizzying range covered the spectrum and included metallics, glitters and glow-in-thedark luminescent shades. Something for everyone; although I can only assume that the latter is designed as an aid to light your way should nature call you in the middle of the night.

I was impressed by the painstaking care with which the ladies applied the nail varnish to every client’s toes. They certainly took a great deal more care than I have ever done in my home application sessions. My slap-dash technique of splurging colour semi-carelessly and hoping for the best was put severely to shame in their presence. Fine brushes were used to cover the smoothly-filed ends of my toenails and to painstakingly remove stray smears. Truly, a labour of love.

Having spent two months living in flip flops, revelling in the warm temperatures of a southern hemisphere summer, my feet have been open to the kind elements. The pedicures there are distinctly cheaper and more accessible than those of my home country and, since my feet were regularly on display, it seemed prudent to make them rather more presentable for the general public. I took full advantage of the opportunity to indulge in a couple of sessions.

Returning north of the equator has involved a plummet in temperature and the need to seek out shoes or boots again. Imprisoning my feet within the confines of such footwear feels awkward and claustrophobic. However, on the upside, I do get to enjoy slipping them into the welcome caress of sheepskin slippers where they nestle very comfortably. These treasures were gifted to me last year, but have no place in an African summer.

Now however, with spring just around the corner, I can truly put my best foot/feet forward and anticipate releasing my newly pampered tootsies again before very long. You might like to give a pedicure a try yourself. Your feet will thank you.

Turning Lead Into Gold: An Introduction to the Five Phases of Energy by Eileen Rolland

First off, I would like to make it clear that we will not be turning actual lead into actual gold. We will focus, instead, on getting rid of the ‘lead’ – that heavy weight that drags you down and hinders your progress, physically and emotionally.

To do this, we need to look at our understanding of health and what that means to us. Different cultures have different approaches when it comes to this subject and Traditional Chinese Medicine is one such approach. This introduction will look at the basics of something called Five Element Theory, or, more accurately, The Five Phases of Energy.

In ancient China, scholars observed the natural world including people, animals, plants, and the cosmos, and identified five basic ways in which energy manifested itself. They associated these with familiar and natural elements from their environment, each of which relates to the way that particular energy flows. The theory is that all phenomena in the universe corresponds in nature to one of these elements. Still with me? Here’s a brief explanation.

Wood energy flows upward and outward, like a tree, although the term ‘wood’ refers to vegetation generally. Wood is about beginnings.

Jenny Sanders is a writer, speaker, & encourager. For the past several years she’s lived between the beautiful cities of Bath, UK and Cape Town, S Africa.

You can bring Wood energy into your environment by having a plant in your room, or a wooden ornament, for example. The colour green is also a representation of Wood.

Fire energy is expansive and ‘all consuming’. It can flow in two directions, upward as well as downward. One way Fire can be represented is with a candle or fireplace. Fire is associated with the colour red.

Earth energy is balancing. In the body, it helps to keep all the other energies in proportion. It can be represented by crystals, stones or even the plant mentioned earlier as it is in soil. It is associated with the colours brown or yellow.

Metal energy is condensing/contracting. It can be represented by anything made of metal; an ornament, candlestick or wind chime, for example. Metal is associated with the colour white.

Water energy spirals downward and finds its own level. It can be represented by a fountain or water feature in your garden or by an oil burner using water with a few drops of essential oil, in your home. Living plants also have water. It is associated with the colour blue and sometimes black.

Food relies on water and fire. Production relies on metal and wood. Earth gives birth to everything.’ (Quote taken from A Collection of Ancient Works)

Each element promotes the existence of, or ‘gives rise to’ another and this process is represented by the blue circle, reading in a clockwise direction. Each element also controls or ‘diminishes’ another and this action is represented by the red lines, reading in the direction of the arrows. So, for example, Wood would promote Fire (next in the circle) but diminish Earth (indicated by the arrow).

There are lots of other associations with these elements - time of year; time of life; organs; emotions; tastes ... But more of that later. Let’s take things one at a time.

You might be familiar with the concept of meridians where the channel for an organ starts in one place on the body and ends in a another.

We all have energy running through our body. It’s what makes us ‘alive’. This energy runs through channels or meridians to feed the various organs and other tissues in the body

But these lines only indicate where the energy for that particular organ is closest to the surface of the body and can be manipulated by acupuncture, using needles, or by acupressure, using hands/fingers to press on a given acupoint. The channels actually run deeper into the body, circulate and criss-cross at various points to nourish every part.

That’s why, if you go for an acupuncture treatment, the needles might be placed in areas that are distant from the site of the problem.

I mentioned that each element relates to a time of year. In the coming months, I will give more detail for each of them. April will be about Wood as it is related to spring. Then Fire will be in June (summer); Earth in August (late summer); Metal in October (autumn/fall); and Water in December (winter).

In this series of articles, we will look at each element more closely. We will focus on the pair of organs, the sense organ, the tissue, the sound, the emotions and the food associated with each, and give a brief indication of what happens when the energy is out of balance.

Thinking of starting a new project? Wait till I tell you about Wood energy!

Eileen Rolland is a former complimentary therapist. When not writing, she teaches Qigong and Tai Chi.

SCOTLAND ROUND THE WORLD

The Scots In Russia

by Lorraine Smith

Russia was often seen as a vast land of opportunity and adventure. It was therefore an appealing destination for vigorous and ambitious Scotsmen, It was often the case, that it was in war that they made their most obvious early contributions to the Russian state.

Scottish Russians are Russians with full (or partial) Scottish ancestry. Scottish migration to Russia began primarily during the early-17thcentury Polish–Muscovite War (1605–1618), Ingrian War (1610–1617) and Thirty Years' War (1618–1648). Some estimates of the number of Scottish settlers in Russia during the 17th century are as high as 100,000. This has led some researchers to conclude that the current number of Scottish Russians could be up to 1-2 million. There are believed to be around 400 different Russian surnames that owe their names to Scottish ancestors.

A number of families of Scottish origin were part of the Russian Empire's landed aristocracy. Two noble families were descended from Clan Ramsay: Ramsay and De Balmen (both Counts).

The Leslie family was headed by Alexander Leslie of Auchintoul (died 1663 in Smolensk), a Scottish soldier in the service of the Tsar Leslie commanded Russian forces during the Siege of Smolensk (1654), one of the first major events of the Russo-Polish War (1654–67),

and was descended from Clan Leslie of Auchintoul. The owner of Gorchakov Manor, he was the voivode of Smolensk. A voivode is a Slavic term for military commander.

Tam Dalyell of the Binns (1615–1685), a Scottish Royalist general in the Wars of the Three Kingdoms known as "Bluidy Tam" and "The Muscovite De'il", was in Russian service.

Dalyell was born in Linlithgowshire the son of Thomas Dalyell of the Binns and Janet, daughter of the 1st Lord Bruce of Kinloss, Master of The Rolls in England. He was taken prisoner at the capitulation of Carrick Fergus in 1650 but he remained in Ireland having been banned from Scotland. He was present at the battle of Worcester and imprisoned in the Tower of London. He escaped and took part in in the Highland Rebellion. Exempted from Cromwells Act of Grace, a reward of 200 guineas was offered for his capture dead or alive. He escaped to Russia and entered the service of Tsar Alexis 1 and distinguished himself as General in the wars against the Turks and Tatars.

He returned to Britain on the Restoration of Charles the Second and was appointed Commander in Chief in Scotland and ordered to subdue the Covenanters, He defeated them at the Battle of Rullion Green and here he treated them with great cruelty and earned him the nickname “Bluidy Tam”.

There is a legend that he enjoyed an occasional game of cards with the Devil. On one occasion the Devil lost and threw the card table at Dalyell. The table missed and flew through the window and ended up in the pond at the House of Binns. Hence the nickname “the Muscovite Deil”. This story was passed down the generations of inhabitants of the House.

Several families are descendants of Clan Hamilton. The Gamontovs (or Gamoltovs) are descendants of Petr Gomoltov-Hamilton, an officer of Count Jacob De la Gardie since 1610 who remained in Russian service after the Battle of Klushino and had several granddaughters. The first was an aunt of Natalya Kirillovna Naryshkina, the Tsaritsa of Russia from 1671–1676 and the second wife of Tsar Alexei I and regent of Russia as the mother of Peter the Great in 1682. The second was a wife of Artamon Matveyev

The best-known and most infamous was Mary Hamilton Maria Danilovna Gamontova, A descendant of Scottish aristocrats, Mary Hamilton was the secret lover of Peter the Great. Her family had moved to Russia during the rule of Ivan the Terrible 1547-1584 and served the Russian Tsars for decades. She was Lady in waiting to Queen Catherine. Mary was executed for the killing of her newborn baby. She had successfully aborted her two previous pregnancies but could not prevent the third birth. She was was executed by beheading on 17th March 1719.

The Khomutov family are descendants of Thomas Hamilton, a soldier who began Russian service in 1542 and arrived in the country with his son Petr (David). Michail G. Khomutov was a cavalry General, Adjutant General and an earl of the Don Cossacks from 1848 to 1862. Anna Khomutova (1787–1858) was a Russian writer, sister of Michail Khomutov and cousin of Ivan Kozlov

The von Fersen family are descendants of the Clan Macpherson, and Baron Vasili Nikolaevich von Fersen (1858–1937) was an admiral in the Imperial Russian Navy.

The Bruces are descendants of the Clan Bruce. Count Roman Vilimovich Bruce (1668–1720) was the first commander of Saint Petersburg, brother of Jacob Bruce and father of Alexander Romanovich Bruce.[12] Bruce joined Peter the Great's army in 1683, became captain of the Preobrazhensky Regiment in 1695 and participated in Peter's 1695–6 Azov campaigns.

Jacob Bruce (1669–1735) was a statesman, military leader and scientist descended from the Clan Bruce. According to Bruce, his ancestors had lived in Russia since 1649. He was the brother of Robert Bruce, the first military governor of Saint Petersburg.

Count Yakov Alexandrovich Bruce (1732–1791) was a Russian general. Bruce was a grandson of Lieutenant General Robert Bruce and a great-nephew of Jacob Bruce His father was Count Alexander Bruce, and Ekaterina Alekseyevna Dolgorukova was his stepmother. Bruce married Praskovia Rumiantseva, sister of General (later Field Marshal) Pyotr Rumyantsev.

Prince Michael Andreas Barclay de Tolly was a field marshal and minister of war during Napoleon's 1812 invasion and the War of the Sixth Coalition. Prince Alexander Barclay de Tolly-Weymarn (1824–1905) was a Russian regimental, division corps commander.

Scots exported their military skills and forged links into even the Royal lineage of the Tsars. Always courageous, sometimes notorious there can be no doubt the Scots have made an indelible impression on Russia.

Lorraine is a keen student of history and writes about Dundee during WW1 and WW2.Her main interest is WW1 and comes from family research and family lore told to her when she was a child. Research has uncovered the interesting stories behind each family member’s path to war, and also the stories of those who stayed behind. These now form the basis of a novel using the stories of her grandparents.

ST. DAVID’S DAY

by Joy Margetts

with white trim for the girls, and a waistcoat and flat cap for the boys. These days it seems wearing the Welsh national rugby or football shirt is enough. Red and black and green is everywhere. Welsh language, poetry and song is celebrated up and down the country.

St David’s’ day falls on March 1st. It is a day of celebration in Wales, an opportunity for this corner of the United Kingdom to celebrate its national identity and uniqueness. National flags fly high from flagpoles, and emblazon shop fronts and house windows. There are daffodils everywhere - the spring weather almost always means they have already appeared in abundance amidst our rain fed green verges. But they are also in vases, window displays and worn conspicuously on coat lapels.

Children attend school dressed in national dress. When my children were small this was primarily the recognisable plaid skirt in red and black, the pinned cape and the tall black hat

Who was St David and why is he celebrated as the patron saint of Wales?

St David is believed to have been born around the year 500, on a windswept clifftop in

Pembrokeshire. His father was Sant, the son of Ceredig, King of Ceredigion, his mother a nun called Non.

He reportedly became a renowned preacher and worker of miracles. He is said to have healed a blind man and raised a boy from the dead but his most famous miracle occurred at Llandewi Bref. Whilst preaching to a large crowd and realising that those at the back could not hear him, suddenly a white dove appeared and rested on his shoulder. At that instant the ground beneath him rose up and formed a hill so he could be seen and heard by all.

St David founded a monastery, and chose to live the life of an ascetic. He ate a very restricted diet of water and vegetables, which is where the leek being an emblem of Wales is thought to originate. He is also thought to have travelled throughout sixth century Wales and the West country and helped to found other religious houses, most notably at Glastonbury. Other legends have him journeying all the way to Jerusalem.

By his death in around 589 he had a faithful following and a saintly reputation. He was already famous outside of Wales – there are many churches and chapels bearing his name as far away from Wales as Ireland and Brittany. The last words he preached recorded by his followers were ‘Be joyful, keep the faith, and do the little things that you have heard and seen me do.’ Today the phrase ‘Gwnewch y pethau bychain mewn bywyd’‘Do the little things in life’ - is still often quoted.

St David’s: Wales’ smallest city

The site where St David founded his monastery is believed to be where the 12th century St David’s Cathedral was later established. St David was recognised as a catholic saint in 1120, and his fame grew so much that St David’s Cathedral, the saints’ resting place, became a recognised site of pilgrimage. Two trips to St David’s was considered equal to one pilgrimage to Rome.

The fact that the magnificent church at St David’s is designated a Cathedral, means that the small community built up around it is designated a city. With a population of only 1600, this makes it the smallest city, not only in Wales, but in the whole of the UK. Those population numbers are swelled considerably every year by the thousands of visitors who still flock to the cathedral and the ruins of the Bishops’ place that stand beside it. It is a delightful place, set on the beautiful Pembrokeshire coast, and the cathedral is still a place of worship with its own Bishop. We have visited more than once, and we have sat in that sacred building so redolent with spiritual history. It is a deeply moving experience, especially when the choir sings and the sound fills the whole space.

National flags and emblems

Wales boast two national flags. The flag of St David is a yellow cross on a black background. More and more this flag has become a symbol of national pride and political in its use.

The more familiar flag is perhaps the red dragon on the white and green background. Where the dragon as a symbol originated is unclear. Some believe it dates from dragons carried by Romano – British soldiers in the 4th century. It is thought to have been adopted as a battle standard by Cadwalader, King of Gwynedd in the 7th century. It has appeared on Welsh flags throughout the medieval period – Welsh archers at the Battel of Crecy in 1346, Owain Glyndwr in the 1400’s, the Tudor kings themselves – all had dragons on their standards.

The leek dates as a national emblem for many centuries. Possibly because of the link to St David’s austere diet. Shakespeare himself name dropped St David in Henry V. When Fluellen’s English colleague, Pistol, insults the humble leek on St David’s day, Fluellen insists he eat it as punishment: “If you can mock a leek, you can eat a leek” (Act V, Scene 1)

The daffodil is thought to have appeared much later as a national symbol, most likely because it is widely in flower on March 1st, St. David’s Day. Wearing it as an emblem was popularised by the Welsh Prime Minister, David Lloyd George, who wore it on St David’s day, and prominently at the investiture of a previous Prince of Wales at Caernarfon in 1911.

Joy Margetts has loved writing for as long as she can remember. She also has a lifelong interest in history, and loves nothing better than visiting ancient monuments or burying herself in archive material. She was brought up in the South of England but for the last twenty five years has made her home on the beautiful North Wales coast. Her debut novel 'The Healing', a work of historic fiction, was published by Instant Apostle in March 2021 and her second novel ‘The Pilgrim’ published in July 2022. More information on Joy and her writing, and her personal blog, can be found at www.joymargetts.com

WRITING TIPS WITH WENDY

Shake It Up

Last month I spoke about creativity and how important it is to the writing process. This month I thought I would talk about motivation. Yes, I would agree, creativity is the founding precept of any writing project; without creativity your project is going nowhere Yet, many would be writers, or even established writers, have a fabulous idea for a book which never gets written or, at best, is half written. The reason for this is they either lack motivation

or lose their motivational momentum. I have heard many writers say, ‘I haven’t written for months. I just can’t seem to motivate myself anymore.’ There can be a number of reasons for this, including burnout, in which case a period of rest may be necessary to take stock of life. However, in many cases, its’ because the brain has become bored and has lost its creative edge. Have you heard the saying, if you always do what you’ve always done, you’ll always get what you’ve always got. It is so true. Once you’ve stared at a blank page on your computer for long enough your brain will begin to believe it cannot write. So, my tip this month is give your creativity and your motivation a kick up the writing mojo. Move somewhere else to write – different room in the house, coffee shop, heck, why not even go on a writing retreat. It may just be what your brain needs to fire up a whole new level of creativity.

Good luck with the writing.

Wendy Wendy H. Jones Author, Publisher, Writing Coach

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